


The Politics of Dancing

by airafleeza, mcl4r3n, urbanconstellations



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1980s, Atomic Blonde AU, CIA director Nick Fury, Double/triple agents, M/M, MI6 agent Peggy Carter, Spy Bucky Barnes, Spy Steve Rogers, Subplots, Vodka!, historical events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 05:16:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16361540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airafleeza/pseuds/airafleeza, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcl4r3n/pseuds/mcl4r3n, https://archiveofourown.org/users/urbanconstellations/pseuds/urbanconstellations
Summary: Steve Rogers is one of MI6's best agents. When fellow agent Natasha Romanoff goes is killed on a mission in Berlin, Steve is sent to investigate. With the help of his unreliable contact on the ground, Tony Stark, Steve digs for information before his time runs out. With the appearance of a mysterious Frenchman with a fake name and an even more false accent, Steve realizes there may be more going on than he realized. Steve Rogers wants his life back, but he's going to have to fight for it.An Atomic Blonde au





	1. London Calling

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm so excited to finally share this! Huge huge thanks to my artists airafleeza and velociraptorerin for all their beautiful art and assistance! We made it!
> 
> If you love it, hate it, want to eat it or something, leave a comment. They fuel my sleepy writer soul.
> 
> Comments, questions, headcanons? Find me on tumblr at: chilledbucks
> 
> Also: Every chapter is the title of a wonderful 80s song (my personal favorite being The Politics of Dancing by Reflex) check em out!
> 
> Also pt 2: if you haven't seen Atomic Blonde that's ok! This fic is perfectly understandable without it BUT I defs suggest checking it out. Charlize Theron and James McAvoy? Spies? Charlize Theron? What's not to like? 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

In November 1989, after 28 years, the Berlin Wall came down and the Cold War ended. This is not that story.

 

**London, 1989**

Steve was pretty sure he couldn’t drown. The pounds of ice in the water bit down into the aching skin on his face, but it would heal fast. It had to in this line of work Steve wanted to see how long he could stay under the clear sheet of water, how long he could hold his breath before the cold ate away everything left in his head. When he’d had enough, he released the air left in his lungs and crested the surface. Rivulets raced down his spine and the bruises left with them. Steve rolled his head around while he flexed the hardened muscles in his back.

 

Steve stood and let the rest of the feelings roll away down his legs and back into the tub. He couldn’t even feel the temperature of the ice bucket on the floor as he dug his hand into it. The cubes slid into the glass on the floor and Steve poured his favorite Russian vodka over the rocks. His hand shook as he brought the glass to his face, the bruises on his wrist making the movement sting. The vodka bit down on his tongue and helped opened open up his airways to the clear air in the room. Early morning light filtered in through the bay window in front of the bath, and Steve perched on the edge to watch London through it.

 

The mission was successful, that was what he was told, but he wasn’t sure how many people had died. They never told him that. The difference in this one, however, was Steve’s personal stake in it. That end felt like a legitimate success. He downed the rest of his vodka in a desperate gulp and stood to flick on the light. The harsh rays illuminated the damage on his skin as he lit a cigarette. Smoke entered his lungs and calmed his senses. The sun was rising. Time to go.  

 

Steve padded into his bedroom and tugged on his suit, slow and precise like a ritual. The dark haired man sleeping  in his bed didn’t stir, and Steve laid a kiss to his head before moving away. When he slipped into his overcoat a gun was tucked into the pocket and Steve was on his way. London’s streets weren’t crowded at that hour, the city still waking from a slumber it had barely gotten. Steve felt similarly. Everything was white and clean. The bathroom, the walls of his bedroom, and comforter on the bed. The bare sidewalks under his shiny black shoes. A startling contrast when held up to Steve Rogers’ haggard expression and dark rimmed eyes.

 

He had a debriefing to get to.

 

The Embassy had  a contrast all its own. Its’ lively atmosphere pressed down on Steve’s damp mood as people flitted about all round him and carried out their routines. Steve wondered briefly what they all did. Were they like him, being assigned missions and now on their way to have a new set of information placed in their hands? Sent on their way to take care of whoever MI6 deemed a threat?

 

The black clad guards let him strut right through, and then he was faced with the only person who had ever truly intimidated him. Steve nodded her way. He and Peggy weren’t supposed to know each other, not here. She clicked on the tape recorder and cleared her throat gently.

 

“Steven Rogers of British Military Intelligence Six, for the record, I would like to introduce Nicholas Fury of the American Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. My name is Agent Margaret Carter of MI6.”

 

Steve stared straight ahead, an emotionless affect on his features.

 

“With all due respect, before we begin I’d like to request that Director  Fury be removed from the debriefing.” Steve spoke evenly and gave away nothing. It was the first time he had spoken that day, and his rehearsed English accent still sounded foreign to his ears.

 

Peggy shut him down immediately. “Request denied.”  

 

Steve pursed his lips and tried again.

 

“What I have to tell you, ma’am, is not for SHIELD to hear.”

 

“Rogers, you are the subject of this debriefing, not its controller,” Peggy countered. She was good, Steve almost couldn’t tell this conversation was a farce. He figured there were at least a few MI6 and CIA agents watching through the mirrored glass to his right.

 

Steve tried to cut in, but Fury beat him to it.

 

“I was there, in Berlin. And I’m here with the full executive power of my agency. If you’d like, I could stand behind the mirror with everybody else, but it’s a little crowded back there.”

 

Steve’s jaw ticked in faux annoyance. No leg room, huh?

 

He gave the first knee-jerk response he thought of.

 

“Motherfucker,” Steve mumbled to himself.  

 

“What did you say?” Fury questioned.

 

“I didn’t say anything,” Steve promised.

 

Peggy already appeared enervated as she lifted her head from her notes.

 

“I’m sorry. Did you say something, Agent Rogers?” Her face betrayed nothing. Damn. They really were going to team up on him.

 

“Did you hear me say something?” Steve asked politely.

 

Fury looked to Peggy. “I thought he said something.”

 

“What did he say?” Peggy asked.

 

Fury was silent as he folded his hands in front of him, not willing to repeat the word on the record.

 

Steve sat back in his chair and crossed his arms to keep from laughing. This was going to be more difficult than he had previously anticipated. Steve rolled his eyes and plucked another cigarette out of his pocket.

 

“Well,” he gestured to the recorder, “do you want to play the tape back?”

 

When he was given no response, Steve settled back and lit his cigarette, taking a large lungful of the smoke.

 

“Shall we begin, then?” he prompted.

 

Peggy matched the hand-folded posture of Fury and leaned back in her own seat to begin her questioning.

 

“Berlin,” she began. “What happened there?”

 

Steve’s expression faltered slightly.

 

“Yeah. Berlin. Fuck,” was his answer as he stretched his arms wide and leaned over the back of his chair. This was going to be a ride.

 

**The Beginning**

 

Steve stood outside of the Embassy for one last moment before he entered the building. He’d been summoned by Peggy and someone new: James Falsworth, to receive a mission. Though like always, he had no inkling as to what its goal would be. When he entered the room they were already waiting for him, rapt and put together.

 

“Ah, Steven,” Peggy greeted, “Sorry to bring you in on such short notice. You remember Mr. Falsworth.”

 

“Yes,” Steve tried out.

 

Peggy smiled secretively over her shoulder at him to confirm what he already thought: his accent was improving swiftly.

 

Falsworth cleared his throat impatiently and cut in.

 

“We were just going over your file. I see your Russian is excellent, an expert in escape and evasion, proficient in intelligence collection, and hand-to-hand combat. It’s an impressive set of skills,” the man finished with a ghost of a smirk. Steve really wanted to know who he worked for.

 

Peggy nodded her agreement to Falsworth as she spoke.

 

“Yes, and knowing the Reds as I do, he’ll need every damn one of them,” she acceded.

 

Falsworth set down Steve’s file and looked him in the eyes. There was a clear meaning in them: _don’t you dare forget a word I say_. Steve looked back with a cool expression, revealing only mild distaste for the theatrics.

 

“Steven, how well do you know Natasha Romanoff?” Falsworth asked.

 

Steve was confused, to say the least. She was a close friend, like Peggy. A fellow agent and someone he trusted.

 

“Enough to say hello,” he answered. Falsworth didn’t need to know anything else about it. “We worked together in Istanbul in ‘85.”

 

“She’s dead,” was Falsworth’s immediate reply.

 

Steve went cold as his eyes slipped shut. That wasn’t _fucking_ possible. He’d just spoken to her the other day, she wasn’t even on a mission. She would have confided in him if something was wrong, if anyone were after her. Maybe Steve was wrong. He knew well that all you needed in this line of work was a few minutes and you could have anyone you wanted at your mercy. Natasha didn’t seem like the type to go out that way, so simply. All of these things passed through Steve’s mind in an instant, though he was versed in not letting a speck of it show. This he could count on.

 

Falsworth continued his divulgence. “Romanoff was killed last night on a mission in Berlin.”

 

Spots pushed themselves into Steve’s vision as he struggled to put on the facade of casual condolence. This was the hard part, the unexpected loss.

 

-

 

“The West German Police fished her body out of the Spree this morning,” Peggy recited as she clicked the projector to a new slide.

 

A photograph of Natasha stared Steve down, her short hair and wide eyes giving the illusion of clueless innocence. She could kill Steve with her little finger and he’d thank her for the opportunity to die at the hands of such grace. If he were the type to employ heroes, Nat would be his.

 

“And the coroner extracted a 7.62 Tokarev round, from the base of her skull.” Peggy finished.

 

Steve brought a hand to his chin, considering the options. The conclusion wasn’t difficult to find.

 

“Soviets,” he supplied quietly.

 

Falsworth picked up after Peggy, not wasting any time.

 

“Yesterday, Romanoff met with a Stasi officer, code-named Spyglass. We promised Spyglass immunity in exchange for document in microfilm, code-named, ‘the list’.”

 

“Hidden in a Swiss watch, no less,” Peggy marveled.

 

Falsworth nodded, continuing. “‘The list’ contains every active clandestine officer, all their shady deals. It’s an atomic bomb of information that could extend the Cold War for another forty years, and we believe the man that killed Romanoff now has it.”

Steve crossed his arms, taking in the information. He had an acute feeling he knew what they were going to ask of him.

 

“Our sources point to an individual under the organization Hydra. A hatchet man with more than twenty confirmed kills.”

 

“So you want me in Moscow?” Steve supplied.

 

“No,” Peggy countered to Steve’s confusion, “The man never got on the flight out, so he’s still in Berlin along with the list.”

 

Falsworth looked to Steve again, the same grave look in his eye.

 

“Everyone’s looking for it. The Yanks, rogue Hydra, other Soviets of course-”

 

“And our man, Stark,” Peggy interrupted, obviously more than ready to roll the ball on this.

 

“Who’s Stark?” Steve asked.

 

“Anthony Stark. He’s our number one in Berlin,” Peggy switched the slide again, a dark haired man with a downright untrustworthy smirk plastered across his face. Steve was immediately wary. “He’s your point of contact now.”

 

Fucking fantastic. Put him on the ground without a gun, why don’t you?

 

“Without an Embassy to look after him, Stark has gone somewhat native,” Falsworth added.

 

“Gone fucking feral. Berlin is the wild west. If that bloody wall comes crashing down, we don’t want to be under it. If the Russians get that list, we’re all buggered sideways,” Peggy gave Steve a look that informed him she knew exactly what he thought of Stark. She trusted Stark, that was why she gave him the hard jobs.

 

She stepped over from the projector and handed Steve his new identity, wrapped up nice and neat in manila. Her hand lingered near his for a moment in silent solidarity. She’d known Natasha as well.

 

“You’re Grant Stevenson, a Cambridge-educated lawyer sent by Natasha Romanoff’s family to retrieve the body and personal effects of their recently deceased daughter. Your mission is to connect with Stark and do whatever it takes to get that list home.”

 

Falsworth added, “And remember, Steven, this is highly sensitive. Trust no one.”

 


	2. 99 Luftballons

 

Steve poured himself another drink and slipped his headphones on. He never did well with planes. Europe swished by below him as he wondered just what he’d gotten into. If Nat had taught him anything it was how important unassigned side-missions could be. If she was really gone, Steve was going to find the Winter Soldier and put a bullet through his skull before this was all said and done. He owed Nat that much.

 

**West Berlin**

**November 2, 1989**

 

Steve waltzed off his Pan Am flight, slightly less boozed up and a lot more in character. His long black coat swayed behind him as he made his way to get his passport stamped, and then out into the open air of the non-communist side of Berlin. When he made it to the bottom of the stairs a grey-haired man Steve had never seen before, and was most definitely  _ not _ Stark, met him. 

 

“Mr. Stevenson! Mr. Stark was running late. He sent me to pick you up.” 

 

Before Steve could gather up an answer the man was in motion. 

 

“Checked bags?” he asked, leaning to pick up Steve’s lone suitcase. 

 

“No. They’ve been sent.” Steve replied warily as he followed the man to a sleek black car and got in the back seat. 

 

Something wasn’t adding up. He glanced over his shoulder and caught the eye of a man across the street in a phone booth. His ice blue eyes bore into Steve’s before he turned, pulling a tendril of brown hair over his ear as he spoke into the receiver. Steve instinctively slid a hand into his pocket, gun already loaded and waiting. He ducked into the car and hoped for the best. Another man met them at the car and seated himself on Steve’s left. Steve chanced a glance down and his suspicions were confirmed. He was carrying. Steve would bet the driver was, too. The driver had the audacity to make polite conversation as he drove, as if Steve was clueless. 

 

“So...is this your first time in Berlin?” 

 

“Yes,” Steve answered, jaw clenched. 

 

“Well,” the driver said, “it’s a remarkable time to be here.” 

 

Steve almost chuckled. He bet it was.

 

The car picked up speed abruptly, and Steve covertly snuck a glance over his shoulder. They were obviously being followed. Two cars to take him down? He was flattered. The driver continued his spiel as the car  accelerated once more. 

 

“Wonderful music, superb nightlife, marvelous restaurants. You must try the Central Cafe for a drink,” he handed Steve a business card from the sun visor. “You’ll need it later.” 

 

Steve slid his sunglasses off, languid and innocent as the driver spoke again.

 

“You remember Mr. Bremovitch, don’t you?” the driver spoke, referring to the man sitting next to Steve. “ Of course you do. Well, he’s very curious what you’re doing here in Berlin.”

 

That was it.  _ Fuck this.  _

 

Steve reluctantly let go of his gun. Not a good idea to make a mess so early in his trip. He pulled off his shoe lightning fast and jammed the heel into Bremovitch’s throat as hard as he could. Steve batted the driver’s hand away in a sharp swipe and lunged for the gun in Bremovitch’s coat. They tussled for it, firing several shots into the roof as the car swerved perilously. Steve and the Russian pushed back and forth before Steve wrestled the car door open and landed a swift kick to Bremovitch’s head. The man screamed and let go, rolling out of the car and into the path of the one behind them. It swerved, barely missing him. 

 

Steve went for the driver next, ripping the gun out of the way and thrashing his arms out until he got a hold of the steering wheel. The driver yelled as Steve jerked it to the right, swinging the car into a divider before it flipped over, both men still inside. 

 

The car slid to halt, the one following them screeching into place a second later. Tony glided out, walking briskly over to the wreck, grabbing Steve’s discarded shoe on the way. 

 

“Welcome to Berlin! My name is Tony-” 

 

Steve fired a shot near the man’s face. What the  _ fuck _ was  _ Tony  _ thinking?

 

“Where the  _ fuck  _ were you?” he opted for instead, gun still pointed at the other man.

 

“Don’t shoot. I-I’ve got your shoe,” was Tony’s reply as he danced the black loafer in front of the doorway. 

 

-

 

Tony dragged the driver away from the wreck as Steve regained his legs. As Tony passed he gave Steve a toothy grin. 

 

“Here, let me help you with your bags.” He pulled on the latch and the upside-down trunk popped open, depositing Steve’s suitcase in a heap by his feet. 

 

“Fuck’s sake!” Steve growled.

 

“Russians are fucking heavy!” was all he got from Tony as he passed. 

 

Steve followed to Tony’s car, anger roiling in his veins the whole way. 

 

“Five minutes on the ground and I’m already made.” 

 

“You’re not made. I hope,” Tony concluded as he heaved the driver into the trunk of his car. 

 

“They knew my name,” Steve argued, accent slipping just slightly in his distress. Tony’s was English, too, though not refined enough that Steve couldn’t tell it wasn’t natural. 

 

“That’s troubling,” the man replied cheerily. 

 

“And yours,” Steve added.

 

“That’s hardly surprising,” Tony shot back.  

 

Steve needed to punch something. Hard. Luckily, the driver struggled to sit up just then, and Steve took the opportunity to land a right hook he hoped he’d be able to try on Tony someday. 

 

“Great fuckin’ start, Stark.” 

 

-

 

Tony Stark drove like an absolute maniac. 

 

**Present Day**

 

“So…” Peggy leaned in, “What was your first impression?” 

 

“Of Tony? Well, he was handsome, late 30s…” Steve began sarcastically as he eyed Peggy. “Disastrous Sinead O’Connor hair,” he finished, and reveled in the way Peggy had to hold her breath. 

 

“Irish singer,” she said to Fury, who nodded seriously. Peggy wasn’t the only one trying not to laugh, now.

 

“I asked him what the deal was with that, and he said, ‘ _ it’s to blend in _ ’,” Steve regaled, blowing smoke to the side. 

 

**West Berlin**

 

“Want to touch it?” Tony guffawed, rubbing a hand over his sheared head as he puffed a cigarette enthusiastically. 

 

Steve remained stoic, firmly ignoring Tony outwardly. 

 

They zoomed through West Berlin’s streets, causing a ruckus as they went. Steve was halfway to an aneurysm by the next time Tony spoke.

 

“That was the Brandenburg Gate, by the way.” The man pointed towards the structure as they drove, the thing practically a blur. 

 

Tony kept yapping like Steve cared as he threw his cigarette out the window. 

 

“I mean, how the the fuck do the suits think that  _ you’re  _ going to be able to help me find that list? As soon as you pick up Romanoff’s body, they’ll null and void your visa, and you’ll be on the first flight back home.” 

 

Tony made a surprisingly coherent and even more bewilderingly valid point. Steve would never admit to it, though. 

 

“I’ll figure it out.” He snapped. 

 

Tony sighed like he wasn’t sure, though he changed the subject quickly.

 

“That’s checkpoint Charlie, my office is just back there.” He pointed it out like he’d recited it before. 

 

“I’m not here to collect postcards, Tony. Just drop me at my hotel, it’s around the corner,” Steve instructed. 

 

“ _ I _ thought you said you’d never been to Berlin before.” 

 

Steve rolled his eyes. “I can read a fucking map.” 

 

“This will just take a minute,” Tony answered, a mischievous glint in his eye. Steve knew he’d be seeing a lot of that.

 

The car rounded a corner and slammed to a halt in front of the CCCP and USSR headquarters. Steve was now thoroughly perplexed by the display in front of him. 

 

“What are you doing?” he interrogated.

 

Tony laughed wildly. “Sending a message to that fascist pig,” he said as he hauled the driver out of the trunk and onto the steps. 

 

“Say hello to comrade Bremovitch for me,” Tony requested before he knocked the man out cold.

 

-

 

Berlin’s nightlife streamed in through Steve’s window as he undressed for the night. He lit another cigarette and decided to call it a night. As he turned the lights off one by one, he missed the lens snap a photo outside of his window. The precise clicks of the camera one after another left the Soldier with the sinking suspicion that Steve Rogers was going to an obstinate target to remove. 

 

-

 

Steve dressed in all black for the occasion, shoes taking the steps to the morgue carefully one by one. He smoked to calm his nerves once he was inside, Natasha’s body waiting just down the corridor. Natasha wouldn’t leave like this. No note, no clues. It made Steve angry, that she was ripped from him so suddenly, and he hadn't even known she’d needed help. He steeled himself and pushed away from the doorway, heading towards some kind of answer if he was lucky. 

 

Steve met the woman at the door, her severe face pulled as tight as her bun. She led his through the tiled halls, towards the table Nat was laid out on. Steve didn’t want to go through with it. Then she really would be gone. He took a deep breath, clearing out the turmoil and waited for the woman to pull out the table. She unceremoniously removed the sheet and Steve peered down at his friend. Her pale face, cold and dead. She looked at peace, and Steve wanted to be sick. 

 

“She was your colleague?” the woman asked. 

 

Steve _ hated  _ her in that moment. She was impersonal and bland. She didn’t give a damn about him or the person Nat had been. He held in the aggravation, willing it out of his voice before he answered. 

 

“Different department,” Steve silently seethed. 

 

The woman appeared intrigued as to how a lawyer had ended up dead in Berlin. “Which department?” 

 

Steve bristled. “A different one.” 

 

She must have seen something in his face, because she quickly moved on. She gathered the transfer papers as Steve avoided staring at Natasha’s face again. He would break if he dared. 

 

**Present Day**

 

“You know those movies, where the picture just starts to slow down… and melt, then catch fire?” Steve questioned, eyes focusing on nothing, reliving the feeling. “Well...that’s Berlin.” He finished, looking Fury right in the eye, as the other was covered with a leather patch. 

 

**West Berlin**

 

“The passport number is incorrect. I will not release this body without the correct information,” the woman stated. 

 

“It’s a simple mistake,” Steve tried to reason. 

 

“Mr. Stevenson in Germany we don’t make simple mistakes,” she concluded before exiting the room. 

 

Steve was left to ponder the body in front of him. At least he had more time. 


	3. Sweet Dreams

The shower was as scalding as Steve could get it. It stung his skin and reminded him he was still alive. Alive, unlike Nat. He felt a deep pang of responsibility, but what could he have done? Steve didn’t even know she had left the country. He slid his hands up the tiled wall, breathing in sharply through his nose. If he cried now, if he let the rage and the grief fall from his eyes, he wouldn’t get up again. He couldn’t allow that, not this mission. The water swirled down over his sore limbs and into the drain. Steve felt like might be some kind of metaphor for this part of his life. 

 

When he finally pulled himself out of his misery and into a soft white Boy London shirt and a pair of black sweatpants, Steve prepared himself for the next fight. Someone was in his room. He towelled off his hair casually, keeping his cool. He dropped it as he passed the empty vodka bottle he’d left on the table. Steve swiped the bottle and made ready to smash it into the face of whoever was on the other side of the doorway. 

 

He leapt into action and hit the bottle down as fast as he could. The man recoiled into himself and Steve took the opportunity to land a few punches to his ribs. It wasn’t until Steve got the man up against the wall that he saw it was Tony, cigarette still clutched between the lips of his rapidly reddening face. 

 

“I’m not going to lie. I’m impressed,” Steve huffed. At least he finally got to beat Tony’s ass. It was constructive, he had to admit. “You’ve got some balls breaking in here.” 

 

“You should see my balls. Then you’d be really impressed,” Tony quipped. 

 

Steve tightened his hand on Tony’s throat. “I’ll take you word for it.” 

 

“I see you found a way to stay. You wrote ‘16’ when it should have said ‘76.’ Tony accused. 

 

“That’s right,” Steve confirmed. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for at least another week.” 

 

“Lucky fucking me,” Tony snarked. “They won’t release the body now, not until they’ve investigated that red-tape nightmare.” 

 

“How the fuck did you get in here?” Steve pressed. 

 

“You know, I’ve been in Berlin a long time, and I think I know every doorman of every decent shithouse, borderline-decent flophouse, both sides of the wall,” Tony replied, proudly sucking in a lungful of smoke. 

 

“Well then you must know Spyglass,” Steve countered. 

 

“Never met the fellow. He was Natasha’s.” 

 

Steve frowned in thought. He couldn’t be sure Tony was telling the truth, and the mention of Natasha was plain low. Next question. 

 

“What do you know about the man who’s been following me since Tempelhof?” 

 

“I’d say that you’re an attractive man, and that you should do the math,” Tony replied. “You know, if I was to follow you, I mean properly, you’d never fucking know.” 

 

Steve took the cigarette from Tony and took a drag himself while the man spoke again. 

 

“There’s a knack to it, isn’t there? It’s like walking a tightrope or playing the bagpipes. You can either do it, or you can’t.” 

 

“Knock yourself out.” Steve challenged on a puff of smoke. 

 

-

 

The city was brisk at night. Barely a soul roamed the barren streets. Steve had decided to continue the mission, walking himself over to the city square. It didn’t take him long to locate the jewelry store, it’s gold framed doors still open at this hour. Steve breezed in, hands in his pockets and let the click of the door signal his arrival. 

 

“I’d like to purchase a watch,” Steve drawled, accent thick in the air. “I need access to a network in East Berlin.” 

 

He didn’t face the jeweler, but he could sense his consideration. 

 

The reply was brief. “Come back tomorrow before closing.” Steve would take it. 

 

-

 

That night, as the dark seeped through his sheets and seemed to chill him, Steve dreamed. Fragments and memories tied up in string. Something had to connect eventually. 

 

_ How well do you know Natasha Romanoff? _

 

_ Berlin is in trouble tonight as communist leaders struggle to maintain order. _

 

_ Run, Steve! _

 

_ She’s dead. _

 

_ The coroner extracted a 7.62 Tokarev round from the base of her skull.  _

 

_ We know who Satchel is, Steven.  _

 

Steve jolted awake and struggled to force the air back into his lungs. Tears filled his eyelids as he fought them back with all his might and briefly wondered if it ever got easier.

 

-

 

The walk to Natasha’s Berlin apartment the next morning was short. Steve wove through the streets like he knew them, biding his time until he’d have to come face to face with whatever monsters were under Natasha’s bed. 

 

He scaled the stairs quickly, and picked the lock in seconds. Before he knew it, Steve was face to face with what was left of his friend. Her apartment was trashed, books and papers strewn about, rugs overturned and drawers emptied onto the floor. Steve counted his second metaphor from this mission. 

 

**London, 1989**

 

“You expected to find the list at Romanoff’s apartment,” Fury supplied.

 

“You realize you were late to the party,” Peggy continued for him. “Tony, the Russians, everybody must have already ransacked the place.” 

 

“Yes. But the list wasn’t our only problem. Before I left, he told me one last thing. This is exactly why I didn’t want SHIELD present,” Steve revealed on an exhale, 

 

“Spyglass revealed that this list would expose a double agent by the name of Satchel.”

 

**London**

“I want Satchel dead or alive. This traitor has been a thorn in our side for years,” Falsworth demanded, “He’s a black eye to the crown, and the single biggest intelligence leak in MI6 history. You expose this bastard, Satchel, and we’ll hang him for treason. You might even find yourself taking tea at Buckingham palace.” 

 

 

**London, 1989**

 

“So no, I wasn’t just looking for the list in Romanoff’s apartment,” Steve answered. 

 

**West Berlin**

 

Steve perused the apartment closely, taking in the disaster at his feet. Below the dust and rubble lay the sweet smell of Nat’s perfume still in the air. Steve longed to smell it as she hugged him and told him he was being ridiculous, that of course she wasn’t dead.  It was a silly and childish hope, and yet Steve held it close like it had a chance of being realized. 

 

He kept his eyes to the floor, in search of any missed clues, even though he knew there wouldn’t be. When he reached her bedroom, his eyes landed on her dresser. A picture frame had been overturned, the glass broken out. Turning it over, Steve saw it was them. Natasha’s arm slung over his shoulder as they laughed at something he couldn’t now remember. He slipped the photo out of the frame and dropped hard onto the bed, clutching the paper like it might answer every question he possessed. Steve wasn’t sure how long he sat there, breathing in the sweet air and living in another time. 

 

The screech of car tires shook Steve out of his reverie. He had already been there too long, and it looked like someone else had come to bust the party. Steve was up in an instant, stepping cautiously back the way he came until he decided to slip out of the balcony door, hopefully on to a quiet exit. As Steve peered over the edge, car doors slammed in the space below him and shouts echoed up behind. 

 

**London, 1989**

 

“Stark  and I seemed to have a different definition for collaboration,” Steve drawled, old annoyance swimming back up to the surface.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peggy asked. 

 

“He was the only one who knew I was going to Romanoff’s apartment,” Steve answered as he dragged a glass of water towards himself. “And if I knew he was going to call the police, I would have worn a different outfit.” 

 

**West Berlin**

 

A quick look around left Steve’s brain reeling while his knack for ingenuity kicked into full force. A hose was wrapped around the side of the balcony to Steve’s left. He snatched it and had the fleeting thought to laugh at himself for thinking he’d get out of any of this without a fight. He fled back though the living room as he hefted the coil of hose over his shoulder. Steve hit the button to activate the sound system on his way by, cranking it up to full volume. The mirror that sprawled out to Steve’s right let him snatch a glimpse of the men as they rounded the corner. When they got too close, he threw an elbow into the face of the first officer. The hose on his shoulder proved useful as Steve swung it around to smack it into the eyes of the second. 

 

The second officer’s gun fell to the ground with a  _ clack  _ as Steve used the hose to pull the second officer’s feet out from under him. In seconds he had joined the first one in a heap on the oriental carpet. Officers three and four bounded in after the thump of the falling men couldn't be masked by the George Michael song seeping out of the speakers. Steve huffed and hooked the hose around the neck of the third officer and used the momentum to kick the fourth in the chest. Steve felt the air  _ woosh  _ out of the man’s lungs in a torrent. 

 

With a feeling of extreme disdain, Steve realized the first two officers were up again and on the move. Officer four was flipped onto a table and three was pulled backwards by the hose still snug around his throat. In an instant, Steve took out three’s knee from behind. He had pulled them to the kitchen, and proceeded to make excellent use of the pot behind him, hurling the cast iron into officer two’s face and slamming him back into the kitchen counter. Officer one received Steve’s hose where it hurt most and a freezer door to the face. 

 

Steve knew full and well that more officers were outside the front door and on the ground below. Time to make the dramatic exit Peggy claimed he was known for. Steve took the hose wound around officer three and headed to the balcony, hose still in hand. He didn’t stop, just jumped as soon as he hit the edge, coiled hose slowing the fall. Steve could briefly register the screamed protest of officer three as he was yanked towards the balcony’s edge. Seconds later Steve slammed onto the pavement with a thud, only narrowly avoiding the last two officers who had their backs turned as they stared up towards Natasha’s apartment. It only lasted for a moment before they turned at the commotion of Steve’s fall. 

 

“Hey! Halt!” one shouted tightly. 

 

Steve sighed minutely and slipped the collar of his thick black turtleneck over the bottom half of his face in a makeshift mask. His black leather gloves had kept his fingerprints away thus far. Steve could only hope his luck lasted. Eyes trained straight ahead in a pointed, icy focus, Steve waited for the officers to grab his shoulders before he striked. One officer was efficiently flipped over Steve’s shoulder, while the other one soon followed suit after his gun was wrenched from his grip. When both men were incapacitated, Steve straightened and pulled down his mask. His eyes remained cold as he threw the gun in his hand off  to the side before he put on his best ‘anger strut’, as Peggy called it, and strode away. He was  _ livid. _ Stark was going to wish he hadn’t been born. Though if Steve were Stark he would probably already wish for that.

 

Back in his hotel room, the light buzzed quietly as Steve flipped open a book, and removed the tape recorder while the television droned on behind him. 

 

_ “With repeated calls for change on the streets, and the protestors growing ever more confident, time is running out for the East German government.”  _

 

Steve slid up his sweater, and tugged his belt from its loops. He slipped one leg out of his black slacks, he set down the first strip of thick black tape. 

 

_ “Popular opinion has it, that the communists’ claim to leadership can’t be upheld much longer.” _

 

The wire attached to the recorder was held against Steve’s stomach as he secured it with another strip of tape. The plastic recorder rested against his thigh, bound with a few more pieces of the tape. 

 

_ “And if rapid change is not forthcoming, today’s relatively calm protests could be seen as the calm before the storm. It’s not just new faces that are called for, but perhaps a complete demolition of the Wall.”  _


	4. Der Kommisar

**West Berlin: Morning**

 

Steve took the long way to Tony’s apartment, weaving around the Wall and through groups of young Germans, buzzing with the idea of a newly freed country. The old stone building was nestled at the corner of a wide street, filled with huddled punks that threw back beer after beer. Steve lit a cigarette and rang the buzzer as he looked up at the sheen of dirt the clung to the stone. After a few seconds, Tony let him up and Steve climbed the ancient wooden stairs and reminded himself to refrain from throttling the man immediately.

 

Tony opened the door and invited Steve in with a tilt of his head and a quiet hum. The shorter man was calm and quiet, something Steve hadn’t expected. But Steve Rogers was nothing if not adaptable.  Before he could take a step past the threshold, Tony reached toward him. 

 

“Let me take your coat.”  

 

Steve hesitated for a moment as he remembered the second tape recorder he’s snuck into the lining of his jacket that morning. After the moment grew a few tendrils of tension he let it go and handed the long black coat over. Tony took it calmly and began a jaunty step through his apartment. The vaulted ceilings looked down on mountains of boxes, each filled with a different kind of contraband. As Steve moved slowly behind the inconspicuous man in front of him, he clocked boxes of Jack Daniel’s, Levi’s jeans. Shrink wrapped rock records, and banned books. 

 

“Make yourself at home.” Tony threw over his shoulder as he disappeared with Steve’s coat. 

 

“Fucking hell.” Steve whispered, running a hand along an unopened box.

 

“You want a pair of jeans? Help yourself.” Tony called as he flailed back into the overstuffed leather chair at his desk. 

 

Steve joined him in front of it and took in the leather couches and broken television that complemented the setup. A copy of Hustler magazine caught Steve’s eye and he picked it up, flipping the cover towards Tony. 

 

“Hmm. Your library includes Larry Flynt?” Steve commented dryly. 

 

Tony sat back and lit a cigarette, breathing deeply. 

 

“Champion of free speech,” was his answer. 

 

“Hmm.” was all Steve gave back.

 

“What have you found on Hydra?” Steve figured he’d change the subject, get the ball rolling before he pummeled Tony for his circuitous facade. 

 

“Look, if Hydra wanted the Russians to have that list, they would have given it to them by now. We just have to wait for them to make their move.” 

 

“We can’t afford to wait.” Steve replied, his accent lilting in his ears. 

 

Tony seemed almost too casual for the impending threat of Hydra and their Soviet allies. Too quick to brush it all off his shoulders. Probably off his and onto Steve’s.

 

“This is your city, Tony,” Steve continued. “Or do you only know doormen and bellhops?” 

 

Tony  exhaled a puff of smoke and pushed the tip of his tongue wetly to his upper lip. 

 

“So what did you find in Romanoff’s apartment?” 

 

Classic. Circuitous.  _ Crack. _ The last was the sound Tony’s skull was going to make when Steve finally brought it down over the mahogany desk in front of him. Steve rolled back the rage in his blood and crossed his arms lightly. 

 

“Some Deutsche Marks,” he shrugged. “Empty passports, travel visas, and a picture of the two of you from a few years back.” Steve finished. 

 

He’d remembered the photo only after his exit from Natasha’s. Tony had looked much younger then, the lines around his eyes and mouth layed smooth into tan skin and a healthy grin. It was enough for Steve not to know who it was a first, Nat had never spoken of Tony. Steve had started to believe there were many facets of Natasha he wasn’t aware of. Tony paused for a moment, and Steve was aware he’d caught the man off guard. That was the way Steve liked it. He kept the emotions out of his features, and waited for the answer he was determined to get out of the nuisance seated in front of him. 

 

“Did I not mention that we were friends?” Tony said, feigning a casual air only a skilled conman could muster.  

 

“No.” 

 

“No? No. I must have forgot to.” Tony took a final puff off his cigarette and stabbed it out onto an ashtray on the desk. “Get your coat, love. We’re going for a walk.” then he was off, ambling towards the front door, and left Steve mystified in his wake. Tony kept him on his toes, that Steve could respect. 

 

Tony continued speaking when they had reached the dismal streets of Berlin again. 

 

“Look, we’re all exposed by that list. And savin’ the world is cool and all that, but my main objective is staying alive.” 

 

Steve didn’t answer as they walked, dark  sunglasses now pulled back over his eyes. 

 

“I’ve been head of Berlin Station for ten years. You’ve got to know I’m the only man in this town that can help you get the list.” said Tony.

 

“Yes, I’ve read your file.” Steve replied, short. “I’ve also read your dog file. So let’s cut the crap, shall we? This whole hungover, show-up-late, don’t-know-which-way-is-up act, I’m not buying it. I trust you about as far as I can throw you.” 

 

Steve appreciated some honesty every once in a while. The best lies were intertwined with it. 

He figured being direct with Tony might alleviate some running in circles in the future. 

 

“It’s a double pleasure, to deceive the deceiver.” was the answer. 

 

“Niccolo Machiavelli.” Steve wasn’t impressed, but something about this whole ordeal was reading very oddly to his senses. His finger wasn’t on it yet, though. “It was on your shelf.” he finished. 

 

“Oh, my God, I think I fucking love you.” Tony drawled. 

 

“That’s too bad.” 

 

If Tony was telling the truth about Hydra, Steve needed to figure out what the Russians knew. 

-

Steve knew how to dress for a night out. Especially a night out at Central Cafe, the place so kindly recommended to him by Mr. Bremovitch’s driver. The cab ride to the warmly lit cafe was clouded by chilled air and blurred streets. Steve kept his eyes on the world and let his thoughts race. Endless were the flickers on answers he couldn’t quite envision. He could only hope a few would find him soon enough. 

He handed his leather jacket over to the check in attendant and took in the room around him. People sat around a curved bar, while more dotted the scene at tables behind them. The lights were hues of warm and intimate tones, wrapped around the neon lights embedded in the walls behind the shelves of alcohol at the bar. Steve rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt and melted into the crowd. Once he reached the bar he leaned an elbow nonchalantly onto the surface and nodded to the bartender. 

“Stoli on ice.” 

After another brief glance, obscured by his eyelashes Steve reached into this pocket and removed a cigarette. Before he could reach back for his lighter, one was placed in front of the end of the smoke. 

“Good evening, Sir.” came the German a moment later. 

Steve accepted the light and turned his eyes back to the wall. 

“I’m not speaking German tonight.” 

Steve’s Stoli was placed in front of him as the man adjusted his posture to match Steve’s. He was stocky and blonde, with a light dusting of facial hair. Nothing special, as far a Steve was concerned. 

“So you’re British?” the man continued. 

“Were you hoping I was Swedish?” Steve answered in that language. 

The man nodded a few times, a conceding look on his face. 

“Very impressive. This can’t be your only talent.” 

“Talents can be overrated.” Steve’s gaze was now placed on the surface of the bar, and he almost felt sad at the way the words made him feel.   

“A dedication...a loyalty is very rare these days. Everyone here is searching for something. What are you looking for?” the man asked, eyes searching Steve’s face for something to go off of. 

“When all is said and done, wouldn’t you say deep down we’re all just searching for the same thing?” Steve finally met his gaze and held it for a moment, thoughts impenetrable. 

“There you are! I leave you alone for five minutes and already you are attracting admirers.” a french accent called from behind the man. Steve clocked it immediately. Fake. The ‘z’ sound was too harsh, like an American was trying too hard to emphasize it. 

“Monsieur, three is not always a crowd, but tonight it is.” the accent now had a face, and Steve was immediately glad he got to see it. 

The first thing he saw were the glacier-blue eyes caught in the pink of the neon lights. Dark brown hair was slicked back on the sides, but a piece had escaped to rest along one sharp cheekbone. Below his cheeks were his lips. Plump and soft, and Steve could practically feel them begging to be bitten. The man was sex in all its best forms and Steve had never seen such a pretty face. 

Steve’s rescuer stood with a hip cocked and hands on his hips like he was ready to defend Steve’s honor immediately. If Steve weren’t a professional he would have already been on his knees. 

“Mm, French men. What about the British? Maybe we could make some sort of, ah, arrangement.” the man wasn’t deterred by the new arrival. Steve glowered and pulled another drag from his cigarette. 

“We haven’t seen each other in a long time, and we really need to catch up.” Steve’s Frenchman pushed back. 

Steve smirked around his smoke, thankful for the distraction. 

“Alone.” the Frenchman said when the man didn’t budge. 

Finally, the man nodded and turned to Steve. “Men, Berlin is a small place. I’m sure our paths will cross again.” with the little dignity left in him the man departed. 

Steve was now left alone with his stranger, who seemed to put him at ease and rile him up at the same time. He was intrigued, and eager to touch if it came to that. He was alarmed to get so ahead of himself, especially since he didn’t know what the Frenchman’s reason for approaching was. Steve sighed and steeled himself for the blow. The Frenchman approached suavely and smiled a little. 

“Sorry. You looked like you needed saving.” 

Steve turned around, his back now to the bar. He leaned a hip onto the counter and cocked his head to the side, appreciating and observing all at once. 

“Well I appreciate the gesture, Mister…” Steve left the question open.

“Lasalle. Jacques Lasalle. Pleased to meet you.” 

So they were using fake names. Unsurprising. Steve deflected from replying with his own. Something about this man made him want to tell the truth. That was a deadly thing.

“So, what do you do, Jacques?” 

“I’m a part-time translator who really wants to be a poet.Maybe a rock star.” Jacques answered brightly.

Steve chuckled. It was a cute farce, he’d give him that. 

“My friend owns a club. Nearby. Want to come check it out?” Steve’s mystery man continued on. There was a spark of innocent challenge in his eye and Steve was beginning to want to play along. 

“Now?” Steve asked, cigarette left to dangle precariously from his fingers. 

“Sure.” Jacques replied. 

“I can’t.” Steve hoped it threw him for a loop, but the Frenchman was nonplussed. 

“Well, I’ll give you the address anyway. Come meet me there tomorrow night?” he produced and neatly pressed a pen into the napkin under Steve’s drink, writing out the place to be. “Will you come? Hmm?” 

He finished with a tiny smirk that Steve figured just about always worked. He wanted it to again. 

“You’re relentless.” Steve answered instead, taking a sip of his drink. 

“Oui.” 

Suddenly there was a commotion as cameras clicked and people shouted. It seemed someone important to the rest of the world had come to Berlin. 

“David Hasselhoff’s in town.” Jaques supplied. 

Steve snorted. “Lucky us.” 

Jacques smiled. “Berlin is truly doomed.” 

Then Steve’s beautiful Frenchman was on his way out, and Steve was left to wonder when the hell his life had become such a pit of confusion. 

_

The Soldier slid his jacket back on and made his way through the crowd. On the way, he clocked Tony Stark in his peripheral vision, just watching Rogers. The Soldier didn’t think Steve knew, and he was a little disappointed. Rogers was good, as good as he was good-looking. But The Soldier couldn’t think like that. It’d get him killed. He finally stepped outside, and picked up the first payphone in his sight. The familiar number was pressed into the keys before The Soldier even registered he had done it. 

“Contact has been made. Mission will proceed at five hundred hours.” it was easy to slip back into the familiar Russian syllables, French act momentarily dropped. 

He had to admit, the French was hilarious. He’d dropped a few hard Z’s, though. He just hoped Rogers had been staring into his eyes too hard to notice. Seemed like The Soldier wasn’t the only one with an interest. 

_

Steve left the bar shortly after Jaques, along with the suspicion he was being followed again. He knew someone had been in his shadow for quite sometime, but who exactly it was remained unsolved. He decided to walk this time, shoes taping softly off of the German concrete. Steve had an appointment that evening, with a particular watchmaker. The door was unlocked when he arrived, and the man in question was seated in the same place he’d been the last time. 

“Your watch is ready. It’s on the counter in that plain envelope.” the Watchmaker didn’t even look up as he spoke, eyes trained on the piece in front of him. 

Steve haltingly stepped up to the counter and slid the thin manila envelope towards himself.

Then the Watchmaker spoke again. “I think you’ll find my contact very useful.” 


	5. Cities in Dust

Tony’s headphones were up loud as he slid the bug from under the cast he had placed onto his arm to keep it on him. It was easier to pretend one of his arms was broken than to find a new place for it everytime he changed clothes like that idiot Rogers probably did. Tony threw it to the side as he listened to the recording from another, more strategically useful bug. 

 

“Your watch is ready. It’s on the counter in that plain envelope. I think you’ll find my contact very useful.” 

 

-

  
  
  


The news buzzed on in Steve’s room, history making its next appearance. He watched with a cigarette as the story was told.

 

“East Berliners stormed the West German embassies in Czechoslovakia earlier this week, as the Czech government has begun to wave the refugees through checkpoints with few questions. One has to ask how long the East Berlin government can hold on…”

 

Steve placed the pieces of the watch onto the table in front of him and got to work constructing them. It was the same type of watch the list was in, and every bit of familiarity with it Steve could garner was vital. Almost as vital at the locations the watchmaker had slipped into the intricate metalwork on the watchface. 

 

**London, 1989**

 

“Hydra and the list had not yet surfaced in the West. I needed to meet my new contact and see what I was up against in the East.”

 

**East Berlin**

 

Steve scratched his head again and hoped the wig hadn’t become uncentered. It was itchy as all hell and the knit hat on top of it was even worse. He never had looked good as a brunet. Steve took measured steps to the gate, where an officer waited to check Steve’s passport. He was stoic and spoke in a monotone.

 

“You should have packed for a visitor’s permit.What kind of work do you do?”

 

“Legal affairs.” Steve spoke softly, and out on his most innocent look. 

 

They shared a look while the officer sized Steve up. After a moment, the man conceded. 

 

“If you do not return before six O’Clock, you will be arrested. Do you understand?” 

 

“I understand.” 

 

He stamped the passport with finality and sent Steve on his way. 

 

**London, 1989**

 

“Right now I’m not feeling very confident about this story of yours.” Fury said, hands folded on the table. “Why not use Percival’s connections in the East?” 

 

Peggy looked curious, her red lips giving a little quiver of a frown.

 

Steve turned to the mirrored glass and cocked his head. “He told me... to trust no one.” 

 

**East Berlin**

 

Steve stalked towards the theater, aware of as many people around his as he could be. As soon as he’d stepped through those gates the prickling feeling was back, and his eyes were on a swivel. 

 

-

 

The Soldier slid the dark sunglasses back up his nose and spoke into the payphone.

 

“It’s him. He’s headed towards Alexanderplatz.”

The Soldier couldn’t take this one. Rogers knew his face and if by some stretch of the imagination Rogers survived this unscathed, The Soldier didn’t want his ass in the crossfire. The car pulled in a moment later. The Soldier almost felt bad. Almost. 

 

-

 

The second the shiny black car pulled up to the curb, Steve was on edge. His jaw ticked as the doors were slammed and the three men dressed in the same shade as the car walked briskly in his direction. Steve kept walking, right into the theater. As soon as the metal doors shut behind him, he took off in a sprint up the marble stairs on his left, only stopping to check behind himself. As soon as the first landing was in sight he ditched the wig and threw the hood of his jacket over his eyes. 

 

A lucky opening allowed Steve to slip behind the movie screen, some Russian film blaring over the speakers as he hid. He knew they were looking for him, there was no way Steve could wait there for them. Using the last of his head start, he took a seat in the middle of the audience, and watched as the men scoped out the scene. They all passed without so much as a glance in his direction. The moment passed and Steve moved again, this time out to the hall again. He yanked down a fire alarm as he went, and let the shrill sound pierce the space. 

 

A quick look through the coat rack and he had found the keys to the back rooms and into another screening room. He was met with a hulking man, almost taller than he was. 

 

“You’re coming with me.” the thick Russian accent pushed out.

 

The rain washed down on the screen as the characters in the movie searched for shelter. Steve rolled his eyes at the comment. Faster than he could realize he was moving, Steve pulled out the keys from his pocket and had thrust them towards the man, going a rib shot. The man ducked and stumbled backwards, which gave Steve the opportunity to land a punch where his keys had missed. The Russian recovered quickly, and his hands wound through Steve hair to wrench him towards the door, but Steve twisted under his arm and spit, petty and agitated. 

 

The Russian growled and swung Steve the other way as he let go of Steve’s hair. Steve kicked again, and followed with one-two punches to the Russian’s chest. The keys were pulled out again and Steve plunged them into the Russian’s cheek while the man howled in agony. With the keys still lodged in his face, the man spun Steve backwards and shoved him towards the wall. His hands wrapped around Steve’s throat in a vise. 

 

“Are you crazy?” the Russian asked. “They just want to talk.” 

 

Steve didn’t know who the fuck ‘they’ were and didn’t have the time to ask before he was thrown across the floor, gasping and heaving. The Russian didn’t let up, and a second later Steve was kicked through the screen and across the floor in front of it, before he flopped onto the ground below the stage. The cover gave Steve the chance to draw himself into a crouch and get out of there. He threw his sunglasses back on and hit the side door as fast as he could, shoulder and throat protesting all the while. 

 

Steve hobbled over to his next destination, the roof of an apartment building a few streets away. There, a man in a bright gold fur coat awaited his arrival. 

 

“You are late. And you were followed.” the man stated plainly. 

 

“I’m late because I was followed.” Steve corrected. “I lost them twenty minutes ago near the Palace der Republik.” 

 

“You’re as good as your reputation.” 

 

“You sure this is the best place to meet?” Steve wondered aloud. 

 

The man smiled and rose his middle finger to the spinning ‘Berlin’ sign beside the building. 

 

“Keep your enemies close, I’m a permanent fixture for them now.” 

 

Upon approaching, Steve could make out the lawn chair the man sat atop, while a cigarette was held tightly between two fingers adorned with gold bands. A radio sat among the chaos spread across various little tables on both sides of the man. 

 

“The Watchmaker says there has been great interest in this list on the black market the last few days.” the man continued. 

 

“Any sign of Hydra?” Steve asked. 

 

“No, but this Satchel character has people worried on both sides of the wall.” 

 

Steve nodded while she shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. What kind of network have you assembled?” 

 

“There’s a lot of, uh,  _ dissatisfied _ youth on this side of the wall. They’re like a...tinderbox. If you find the right spark…” 

 

Steve listened as he plopped into the chair next to the man and helped himself to a beer. After he popped the cap off and threw it to the ground, Steve spoke again. 

 

“Keep talking.” 

 

-

 

Tony puffed his cigarette anxiously as he watched his lead turn the corner. The man was burly and mean-looking. His long hair was wound into a braid and his boots clunked against the pavement. Tony wrinkled his nose. This guy had  _ no _ sense of style. Tony trailed the man all the way to a watchmaker’s shop and watched him go inside. Tony’s anxiety only grew. 

 

-

 

The Watchmaker sat at his worktable, fiddling with his current piece when the door opened. A big man in a black coat stepped inside and the Watchmaker groaned in his mind. The spy types only showed up at night. 

 

“I am interested in selling a watch.” the man said. 

 

“What are you selling?” the Watchmaker asked, already bored. 

 

“It’s extremely valuable. Finest quality and...filled with secrets.” 

 

_ Oh.  _

 

The Watchmaker hustled over to the man, and placed his hands on the counter between them. 

 

“Would you mind if I inspect the merchandise?” 

 

The man leaned forwards, eyes cold and he answered, “Fuck yes I mind. Just tell potential buyers, Hydra is open for business.” 

 

With that, the man turned and left. 

 

-

 

Steve was perched on the round white chair in his room, headphones on his ears. His oversized shirt had slipped off his shoulder, and his briefs hung low on his hips. Steve was anything but relaxed. 

 

_ “Men, Berlin is a small place. I’m sure our paths will cross again.”  _

 

_ “Sorry, you looked like you needed saving.”  _

 

_ “My friend own a club nearby. Want to come check it out?”  _

  
  


Steve went out again. He couldn’t really resist at this point. He’d told himself it was for answers, to get a grasp on at least one thing happening to him, but that wasn’t exactly the whole picture. His mysterious Frenchman hadn’t appeared again, and Steve was more than a little curious. 

 

The club was painted in neon. Blues and deep pinks washed the place aglow in a debaucherous light. Steve wove towards the bar, and was met with his pretty hero nursing a glass of whiskey at it. They stared at each other for an almost heated moment, as the lights cast them in bright shadows. The seconds were charged, like this place wasn’t quite real, and the two of them were the only things that were to exist within it. 

 

Jacques’ eyes sparkled as he ran his fingers through his deep brown hair. Steve didn’t even need to bet those strands would look beautiful wrapped around his fingers, he knew. Jacques leaned forward and spoke into Steve’s ear. 

 

“I didn’t think you would show.” 

 

He leaned back and took a drink from the bar counter, before he held it out to Steve. 

 

“Stoli on the rocks?” 

 

Steve held in a smirk and took the drink.

 

“You pay attention.” 

 

They clinked their glasses together and shared another look, Jacques’ eyes boring into Steve’s. Steve felt hot all over, like he was a teenager again, and a boy had looked at him for the first time. 

 

“I look for pleasure in the details.” the Frenchman answered, the innuendo written all over his face. “Speaking of which, I’ve been dying to ask you a question.” 

 

Steve waited for the words to come but they never did. Instead, Jacques caught Steve in a kiss, gentle and searing at the same time, though the latter may have been Steve’s heart pumping his blood faster by the second. When they parted, Jacques smiled at him, brilliant and dangerous. 

 

“Let’s go someplace quiet.” he took Steve’s hand and led him away from the bar and into a back room. 

 

The second the door had closed Jacques had yanked Steve in front of him to press their lips together again. This time it was heated and deep, tongues already out to play. Steve was in heaven, but he also wasn’t stupid. He let a hand wander down Jacques’ back, pretending to move towards the man’s supple ass. Instead, Steve made a quick grab for the gun just below the waistband of the Frenchman’s tight jeans. In a second, it was trained on Jacques’ face. 

 

“Why the gun, Jacques?” 

 

The Frenchman’s breath was heaving, his eyes wide and dilated, He took a moment to answer.

 

“You are not as well disguised as you think. I know who you are. You’re Steve Rogers, MI6, and you’re here because of the death of Romanoff.” 

 

Steve reacted before he thought and barred his arm across Jacques’ throat. The man was pushed back into the wall and Steve stepped forward. 

 

“What do you know about Romanoff.” Steve asked slowly as the anger seeped into his voice. 

 

“Nothing,” Jacques whispered. “But if someone is killing Allied officers shouldn’t we all care? Whatever is in that list has people willing to kill for it.” 

 

Steve paused to catch his breath. Something still wasn’t right, but Steve wanted to trust, for once, wanted one damned face to look into and see something honest. Whatever else he had hidden, there was a spark of truth on Jacques’ face. Steve lowered the gun, and let go of Jacques’ throat slowly. Steve backed off, and pushed himself against the other wall, eyes not leaving the other man. 

 

“This is my first assignment with French intelligence. I’ve only been here a year.” Jacques’ took a deep, shaky breath. “I’m scared, okay? I got into this because it was exciting. But it’s never been like this is Berlin.” 

 

Steve knew Jacques wasn’t really French. Lie one. First assignment? Lie two. Afraid, and got into it for the adventure? There was truth there. Something raw and painful that Steve recognized from his own past. Steve didn’t know how to handle all this either, despite his confident air. 

 

“You should have become a poet.” was all Steve said, quiet and pensive. “Or a rock star.” 

 

Jacques chuckled, high and pitiful, before he leaned back and smiled at Steve. It was soft and light, and Steve commiserated all the more. They stared again for a minute, each man in his own head until Steve felt the air change. Jacques must have picked up in to a second later, when his eyes widened and a gasp flew from him. Steve moved across the space and took the Frenchman’s jaw into his hands. Jacques leaned in for another kiss, but Steve gripped his side and spun them, so the other man was pressed to the wall by his front. Jacques moaned, loud and deep as Steve nosed his hair. 

 

-

 

Jacques’ bedroom was a menagerie of more neon lights and old book strewn across every possible surface. Papers and envelopes dotted a mahogany desk in the corner, and a television droned quietly into the warm space. They were through the doorway and onto the bed before Steve had a chance to breathe again. Jacques was on his back, his smile as bright as his eyes as he watched Steve. When he’d had enough waiting, the Frenchman slid his hands under Steve’s shirt and pushed it up. Steve had shed his jacket back in the hallway, along with Jacques.’ The t shirt hit the floor and Steve’s mouth was back on the man underneath him. He bit lines down the Frenchman’s throat as Jacques ground his hips up into Steve’s in desperate movement that sent fire up Steve’s spine. 

 

“Fuck, Jacques.” Steve gritted out as they moved against one another. 

 

Jacques moaned into Steve’s hair as he wound his fingers through it to pull Steve back up to mouth level.

 

“Mm it’s Bucky. Call me Bucky.” Steve’s Frenchman gasped out in a distinctly American accent.

 

Steve grinned. “Bucky.” 

 

Bucky had paused, and now seemed aware of the slip. After a second of wide eyed realization Bucky relaxed back into Steve. He was rewarded with Steve’s hand finding its way into his tight jeans. Bucky’s skin was feverish under Steve’s hand as he writhed under the firm touch. If anything, the words got Steve even harder. Honesty, even accidental was rare. Bucky was truly something else, and all Steve wanted was  _ more. _

 

The man in question had grown impatient as Steve continued to rub a hand across his cock and he had begun to tug aimlessly on Steve’s jeans. Steve laughed, a breathless release of sound, and helped Bucky peel the denim off of his hips in one smooth motion. All that espionage training was good for something, it seemed. Bucky hummed his approval as Steve took the initiative to take care of the ex-Frenchman’s jeans as well. Bucky squirmed under Steve, and grabbed at every inch of the man’s skin he could find. 

 

“Hey, Buck. Hold on, baby.” Steve soothed. 

 

“Steve, you gotta let me suck you. Fuck,  _ Steve _ .” 

 

Steve nodded vehemently and let his eyes fall to Bucky’s plush reddened lips, still slick with spit. To see them wrapped around his cock would be the sweetest kind of torture. Bucky sat up and put his weight on Steve’s side until they flipped. Bucky’s hair framed his wild eyes with tendrils of sweaty locks, and  _ God  _ Steve couldn't wait to wind them around his fingers. Bucky’s eyes were wide as they trailed down Steve’s body, to his hard length. From the expression of innocent awe on his face, Steve hadn’t disappointed him. 

 

The awe turned to mischief as Bucky discarded Steve’s briefs and took Steve in hand. Bucky’s skin was hot and slick, and Steve couldn’t hold in the breathy whine that slipped past his lips. Bucky looked pleased, and doubled down on his ministrations. Steve’s hands fisted into the white sheets and held on for dear life. The man in between his legs was going to leave this encounter with his soul, Steve could already tell. In the time it took Steve to listen to his scattered thoughts, Bucky had leaned down and taken Steve’s cock into his mouth in one languid movement. 

 

Steve arched his back at the wet vise of Bucky’s throat. The room seemed to have lost all of its air, and the only thing left was Bucky’s tongue as it ran circles under the head of Steve’s cock. Bucky then dropped down, nose almost touching the delicate skin at the base, and Steve shivered in pleasure. The process continued while Steve fell apart in the hands of the beauty sucking him off. Just when Steve opened his mouth to warn Bucky he was close,  _ too close _ , the man pulled off and threw Steve a carefree grin. 

 

“You taste like fucking heaven, Rogers,” Bucky laughed.

 

Steve chuckled and finally,  _ finally  _ plunged his fingers into the glossy locks on Bucky’s head. The man in question seemed to instinctively lean into the touch, eyes closed and mouth lax. 

 

“Tu es mon rêve,” Bucky whispered reverently.

 

Steve was flattered, but  _ God,  _ if Bucky wasn’t the most beautiful thing Steve had ever seen. 

 

“ Mais qui aura le prochain bisou?” Steve answered and guided Bucky’s lips back onto his. 

 

The kiss was languid and smooth, but gained heat quickly as Bucky’s length gave Steve’s unimaginably sweet friction. With one last roll of his tongue, Steve pulled away and shifted efficiently until Bucky as on his back on top of Steve. Steve let his hand wander across Bucky’s chest, fingers walking across pert nipples and solid muscle. Bucky was all lithe muscle and delicious curves, like some kind of deity immortalized in the Louvre. 

 

When Steve’s hand reached the base of Bucky’s length, he took it in hand and began to jack Bucky off in earnest. Steve matched his ministrations to the grind of his own cock against the supple cheeks of the man’s ass. With each slide they pressure grew to an unmountable roar in Steve’s ears. From the way he tensed and shuddered, Bucky seemed to be on a similar wave. 

 

Steve came first, having already been too close, and Bucky followed suit quickly after. They rode the aftershocks together before Bucky rolled off Steve and reached to the floor for his discarded shirt. Bucky cleaned them both off with gentle touches while Steve gazed mooney-eyed at his long lashes and flushed cheeks. 

 

“There something on my face, Steve?” Bucky joked, his American accent still on.

 

“Just whatever made you so pretty,” Steve poked back. 

 

Bucky rolled his blue eyes and tossed the shirt back to the floor. When he returned, he slid his head softly onto Steve’s chest and closed his eyes, sighing in bliss. Steve took the opportunity to pet Bucky’s hair absentmindedly. Time bled on until Bucky broke the silence. 

 

“Let’s do this again, Steve Rogers.” 

 

-

 

When Bucky woke up he was alone. Steve Rogers was going to one way or another rip down every notion Bucky has castigated. He couldn’t really be upset about it though. Hydra deserved its place on the ash heap and Bucky was ready to help put it there. He had been for a while. The allure of adventure wore off fairly quickly when you had to kill to further agendas that weren’t yours. Bucky had told Steve the truth When he said he’s been young and in search of some kind of thrill. 

 

He hadn’t lied when he said he was afraid, either. Bucky just hoped there would be some forgiveness for what he had already done. Steve was going to hate him, but Bucky didn’t want to hide. He was done with the “Soldier” facade. If the world saw him for what he was and hated it, Bucky would live. Maybe just figuratively. Hydra wasn’t an organization one messed with, and certainly not one to be betrayed.

 

<p>

 


	6. Behind the Wheel

**London, 1989**

 

Peggy visibly held her breath for a moment as she tried not to cackle. Steve had to give her credit, it was hard not to crack. Peggy lit a cigarette of her own and suppressed her amusement. 

 

“So you made...contact with the French operative?” 

 

Steve bit his cheek to hide the laughter. God forbid he look at Peggy and they both lose it.

 

“Obviously.” 

 

It was easier to feign annoyance than it was to be agreeable when trying not to lose composure. 

 

Peggy nodded and pressed on, “Why?”

 

“I believed he had information I could exploit. Nothing more,” Steve lied.

 

It was Fury’s turn to pipe up.

 

“And did she?”

 

Steve hesitated, for the first time unsure of what to reveal. He glanced quickly to the mirrored glass and back to Peggy, but he knew she couldn't drag him out this time. 

 

“Did he have any information, Steven?” she pressed. 

 

Steve thought back to the night he and Bucky had had their first romantic encounter. Bucky, with his head on Steve’s christ had spoken of something quite interesting. 

 

-

**West Berlin**

 

“There is something I need to tell you. It has to do with your friend Stark hes-” 

 

Steve stopped Bucky’s speech with a hand over the man’s mouth. With being followed so often Steve never knew who could be listening for sensitive information. Steve reached for Bucky’s stereo, and flipped on the radio dial. What Bucky whispered in his ear might just have saved them both. 

 

**London, 1989**

 

“Steven?” Peggy questioned. “Did he give you information.”

 

Steve snapped back to reality. He locked eyes with Fury and shook his head. 

 

“He gave me nothing.” 

 

-

**West Berlin**

 

Tony had his back to the man as he came out of the Watchmaker’s shop. The burly Russian clocked his right away, and strutted over to him, a pissed off air around him. Tony had the screwdriver in his hand, ready to swing. 

 

“Are you following me? the Russian accused. “Maybe you’re not as good at this spy shit as you think.” 

 

Before the man could grab him, Tony turned and thrust the screwdriver into his skull. As the man fell, Ton stood over him and spit. 

 

“That was for Natasha, you fucking prick. Now give me that fucking list.” 

 

-

 

**London, 1989**

 

“We needed to get you a message, Steven. We were several days into a mission without a single lead. And plenty of distractions. You had to be reminded of the course at hand,” Peggy reminded. 

 

“Oh, I received your message.” Steve shot back.

 

**West Berlin**

 

The metal stairs that led to the top of the wall were filled with punks and photographers. Steve slid past them and climbed the stairs slowly, eyes blocked by his big black sunglasses. His hands were tucked into his long wool coat, and his eyes constantly searched for something around him. At the platform on top rested Fury, who stared stoically ahead at the bare landscape of West Berlin.

 

“That’s quite a view,” he began, “Seventy miles of barbed wire, three-hundred and ten guard towers, sixty-five anti-vehicle trenches, forty-thousand Soviet-trained, heavily armed frontier troops. All that, and five thousand GDR citizens still had the brass balls to escape.” Fury chuckled, “You’ve got the MI6 so worried they called the CIA to talk some sense into you. Peggy Carter called me.” 

 

“Of course she did,” Steve smiled.

 

Fury gave Steve an amused look and continued. “I don't’ have to remind you of how fast the clock is ticking. If this thing gets out, a lot of good, hard-working folks...brave men and women are going to show up dead. You and I included. I swear to God, the last few weeks, I dread even waking up in the morning.” Fury was uncharacteristically honest. 

 

Steve closed his eyes, and squeezed them for a moment before he mustered the answer he needed. 

 

“I understand the severity of the situation, sir,” Steve’s accent suddenly sounded even more foreign to his ears. “And the time imperative.” 

 

Fury and Steve shared another look before the CIA director answered. 

 

“Listen, I didn’t climb all the way up here to give you some rousing pep talk. So I’ll cut to the chase. Last night you met a man. James Barnes is out of his depth. Given the climate, I’d hate to see an executive order come down the line that falls in his disinterest.” 

 

Steve turned fully to Fury and narrowed his eyes.  

 

“His disinterest?” Steve spoke slowly, each vowel enunciated clearly. “What do you mean, his disinterest?”

 

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Steven you know exactly what I fucking mean.” Fury ended the sentence with a jab of the rolled up papers in his hand to Steve’s chest. 

 

Steve snatched the papers and Fury pushed past him to leave. 

 

“Hope you get a snapshot,” Fury threw over his shoulder as he left. “Next week this will be a whole different picture.” 

 

Steve was left stunned, and more than a little pissed off. And James “Bucky” Barnes, huh?

 

-

 

Tony leaned heavily over the desk and flipped through the names under the magnifier. Names, number of years active, code names, important missions. It was the list. The little slips of paper that everyone from everywhere was losing their damned minds over. It was in Tony’s hands, and fucking hell was he going to read it. 

 

_ Romanoff, former KGB, turned MI6/CIA-KIA _

 

_ Satchel- double agent, identity- holy shit _

 

Tony needed a drink. A huge fucking drink. He poured himself a Jack Daniels and stood from his seat at the old wooden desk. He needed to meet with Rogers,  _ now.  _ Tony grabbed for the phone and sniffed roughly while it rang. 

 

“Meet me at the Rough Trade Bar at Oranienstrasse. We need to talk” 

 

-

 

Steve stood in front of the mirror and watched himself get dressed. Bruises lined his ribs and throat, slightly faded from the passage of time. A cigarette hung loosely from between his lips and his buttoned his shirt over the mess of marks. Tony wanted to meet him, and that couldn’t be good. 

 

-

 

The bar was crushed under bright pink lights that swam and shook as people moved. Dancers lined baroque stages and swayed provocatively to the music. People in masks and leather straps stalker around him, trying to catch his eye.  It was definitely Tony’s type of place. 

 

“Look at all these hedonists,” Tony announced when Steve made it to the bar. “It’s like a beautiful woman gone wrong. I fucking love it.” 

 

Steve ignored the statement and  cut to the chase. 

 

“Word is Hydra’s got agents in our part of town. Cops found one with a homemade lobotomy.” 

 

Tony very obviously avoided the statement. 

 

“Either way we have to deal with Spyglass. Thinking it through, he doesn't have much time over there.” 

 

“Our priority is the list. We can't make mistakes,” Steve reminded.

 

“Oh, come on,” Tony admonished with a toss of his head. “He’s hardly the most trustworthy person I’ve ever met or the fucking brightest.”

 

Steve perked up at that. “Wait. You said you hadn’t met him.”

 

Tony paused. His eyes flicked to the side for a moment before his gaze returned to Steve’s. 

 

“I lied,” Tony grinned wide. “And he claims to have memorized the entire list. He’s ready to make the jump,” He finished brightly. 

 

**London 1989**

 

“You believe he committed the entire thing to memory?” Peggy asked. 

 

“Everything. Had I known earlier I would have prioritized Spyglass. His knowledge made him as valuable as the list. I could have grabbed him at any moment. Instead, Stark kept it a secret, putting us in a precarious position,” Steve answered with barely contained anger in his voice. 

 

**West Berlin**

 

Steve and Tony ambled casually towards the church, only speaking under the cover of the late night chimes. 

 

“Look, Hydra are going to have some some very angry bastards out there looking for Spyglass. We can’t trust any of the old usual methods.”

 

“It’s not that difficult to drive across the border these days-” Steve began.

 

“-It is when you’re wanted like Spyglass is. We have to walk him across personally to ensure his safety in plain sight. We’ll use the demonstration tomorrow at Alexanderplatz-”

 

“-That’s insane.” 

 

“All those protestors will make a great distraction,” Steve deliberated for a moment, and Tony took the  opportunity to jump back in. “Spyglass is my guy. We’re going to do it my way.”

 

“Fine,” Steve conceded.”But we use my contact to get all our papers in order.”

 

“All right. We have a deal?” Tony asked. 

 

Steve didn’t dignify the request with an answer. He was the one backed into a corner and he knew it. 

 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Tony turned and walked away. 

 

Steve stood in the ring of the bells and wondered if that would be the end of him. 

 

**London 1989**

 

Peggy groaned and scratched lightly at her brow. “You see...I received a call from Tony Stark that evening, Steven. He said he had the list. And that he knew the identity of Satchel. Said he was ‘very close’ to him.” 

 

Steve stared back at her in disbelief.Peggy had dropped this one on him from nowhere, and now things were more than a little sticky.

 

“And no one thought to tell me? Hm?” 

 

Steve and Peggy shared a soft chuckle at their incredulity.  _ Fuck.  _

 

-

 

**West Berlin**

 

Tony hustled out of the little car as the rain beat down on everything it could reach. His arms were wrapped around himself as he approached the little gang of Russians parked by the opposite alley. A particularly unamused man stood closest to Tony, while a pretty man in all black stood behind that man. The pretty man eyes Tony carefully, like he knew something Tony didn’t. The man looked quite familiar, and upon looking back Tony realized it was the suave Frenchman Steve had talked to. Those days seemed like years, now. But a Frenchman with Hydra? What a fucking sight. 

 

“You brought a lot of friends,” Tony commented as he eyed the Frenchman again. 

 

“I heard one of ours had a little accident,” the Russian answered dryly. 

 

I heard he slipped and fell on an ice pick,” Tony subtly snarked. “Berlin’s a cruel mistress.” 

 

“Especially for traitors like him.” 

 

“Oh, don’t be such a fucking communist,” Tony groaned. “You’ve got a problem.”

 

“Yeah,” The Russian said. “I know. You have the fucking list.”

 

Tony stepped forward before he gave a response, keyed up and ready to go.

 

“We’ve been in the trenches long enough to know that at times like this Berlin has its own set of rules. I can give you information that will keep the balance. Now are you in or out?” 

 

-

 

It was nearly midnight when Bucky climbed in through Steve’s window like they were teenagers. All Bucky had had to do was flash that golden grin and Steve had rolled in the sheets with him  for hours. When they had finally finished, spent and panting, Bucky had curled into Steve’s side like Steve held all the warmth in the world. The rain poured and Steve was fairly sure he could see himself falling in love with the man in his arms. It might cost him his life, but Steve was tired. Tired of the agendas, the politics, the _ fighting. _

 

“Stark’s trying to set me up,” Steve mumbled into Bucky’s hair. 

 

“Are you surprised?” Bucky sat up to get a better look at Steve. 

 

“Not really,” Steve agreed. 

 

He pushed a loose piece of hair out of Bucky’s eyes, and gazed into those icy blue gems. They were soft and open, as hard as the man tried to hide it. They seemed to throw themselves open for Steve when they were together, and Steve couldn’t express how much he appreciated the gift. 

 

“These relationships aren’t real. They’re just a means to an end,” Steve continued. 

 

Bucky’s eyes were glassy and wide as he observed Steve for a moment before he spoke again. 

 

“When you tell the truth, you look different,” Bucky smiled. “Your eyes change.”

 

They chuckled together, and Steve moved to light another cigarette. 

 

“Thanks for the warning,” Steve answered. 

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

“I mean I better not do it again,” Steve had to keep his expressions in check. He couldn’t afford to drop hi guard in the wrong situation. Not until it was all over. 

 

“Why?” Bucky asked, voice small. 

 

Steve sighed and guided Bucky’s head to rest against his chest once more.

 

“‘Cause it’s going to get me killed one day.” 

 

-

**East Berlin**

 

Steve and Tony took the subway to the meeting place. After a quick duck into a hall at the station, the two made their way to the room where their cover waited. Thor printed their new passports as stacks of black umbrellas were hauled onto tables around them. Men sat at computers and typed away while Thor moved between them and took care of various tasks. Tony whistled low as he stepped into the space. 

 

“Well, I am impressed. I thought Thor here was just a good bartender.” 

 

Steve ignored the man in a feat that had gotten much easier to perform lately and turned to Spyglass. The man has greying curly hair, and tanned skin. His eyes were framed by small glasses and thick brows. 

 

“You smell like a Stasi officer,” Steve commented. “Shave off that mustache. Use that soap and cologne, it’s from the West.” 

 

“You can’t take anything from the East,” Tony added. 

 

“Thor will give you some clothes,” Steve finished his instructions. 

 

“Right this way Mr. Spyglass,” Thor said and and led the man away. 

 

-

 

“We’ve been told the traitor’s in that Building,” the man told Bucky in swift Russian. “Stay alert.” 

 

Bucky set up the sniper rifle in front of the window sill. He moved ritualistically, he had been doing it for so long. He knew Steve was down there getting ready to walk Spyglass across the border. Bucky just hoped his psy had plan. He had never missed a shot, and Hydra would know if he did now. This one was too big to let up on. The only way out was to hope Steve at least looked like he had outsmarted them. 

 

-

 

**London 1989**

 

“It should have been easy,” Steve lamented. “The plan was sound. Whatever went wrong did so because someone wanted it to. Someone from the inside.” 

 

“You were betrayed by a fellow agent,” Fury leaned forward, intent on Steve’s answer. 

 

“You mean Satchel,” Peggy supplied.

 

“Would that be unheard of?” Steve asked. 

 

-

 

**East Berlin**

 

“Per your request,” Thor handed Steve the handgun, freshly polished and loaded. 

 

Tony commented on the exchange as he watched. “You won’t be needing that. It will be worse if they find it on you.”

 

Steve turned slowly back to Thor and tucked the gun into his waistband.

 

“Everything else ready?” 

 

“Yes. Everything you requested. “

 

Spyglass chose that moment to appear again, freshly shaven and more wary than ever. Steve narrowed his eyes and inclined his head forwards. 

 

“What do you think of his shirt?” 

 

Thor shrugged. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in it. But for him, it’s perfect,” He finished with a nod. 

 

With a wave of his hand Steve prompted Spyglass to move. 

 

“Stand over there,” when the man moved, “Now look like a free man.” 

 

The only change in the man’s outward state was the quick swipe of the glasses from his face. Because, apparently, only communists wore glasses. Within seconds the photo was snapped and in another few minutes, Thor had minted a brand new passport for the anxious man. 

 

When Steve handed over the little booklet, Spyglass turned his wide eyes to the spy and asked a question. 

 

“Did he tell you I memorized the whole list?” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“I realize I may not be as valuable to some people and...some people may even want me dead but...what choice do I have?” Spyglass’ brow was furrowed, deep lines from age and countless hours of stress more apparent.

 

“What’s your name, Spyglass?” Steve whispered. The question was a monumental break of professional code, but Steve felt bad for the guy. It wasn’t everyday the average man had to  face death head on.

 

Spyglass looked alarmed for a flash, and the calmed even more. 

 

“Bruce. It’s Bruce.”

 

Steve smiled and continued. “You’re no good to me dead. And I’ve never lost a package. 

 

“I know.” 

 

Suddenly the metal doors to the room were opened, and Steve was up and aiming his gun at the intrusion. 

 

“Hey, hey, hey! It’s his family!” 

 

The woman and little girl cowered next to the door as Steve dropped his hands in a swift movement. 

 

“This was not part of the plan,” Steve whispered to Tony. 

 

“Part of mine,” Tony answered with a look that begged Steve to challenge him. 

 

Spyglass cut in as he picked up his daughter. “Please.” 

 

Tony gestured to the family. “I’ll take the wife and kid. You just have to deal with Spyglass.”

 

Steve turned to Thor in the hope the man had an opinion. 

 

“I don’t know if I have enough passports,” The man answered. 

 

**London, 1989**

 

“Stark,” Steve began. “Your old golden boy.” 


	7. Personal Jesus

**East Berlin**

 

The protests raged on outside. Thousands of distempered citizens gathered to fight the cloud of communism that tore the country in two. Signs and shouts, and a few of the famous black umbrellas dotted the scene. 

 

Inside, Spyglass kissed his daughter and wife goodbye before Steve came over and placed a hand onto the man’s shoulder.

 

“We have to go.” 

 

As the men exited the building, Tony nodded towards them  seriously. “See you in the West. Good luck.” 

 

-

 

They had left Bucky alone, with just an minion guarding the door from the outside, and a few more interspersed around the rest of the building. Waves of people flooded the streets below, but Bucky was only out for one blond head. It had been almost an hour, And with each second that passed Bucky’s brain went a little more wild. And then finally:

 

“They just left the building.” 

 

Bucky’s view was glued to the scope on his rifle, but his heartbeat pounded in his ears. 

 

“Forty meters and closing,” the voice on the radio said.

 

“I have them in sight,” Bucky answered. 

 

_ Come on, Rogers. _

 

They walked in plain sight, Tony next to them with a woman and child that presumably were Spyglass’ family. Bucky couldn’t kill them. He could kill communists, and Hydra defectors, and criminals. He couldn’t kill and family and he sure as hell wasn’t going to kill Steve. Not with the way his stupid fucking heart sang whenever the man touched him. Steve was a chance Bucky had never thought he’d have. 

 

In the immediate seconds that followed, Bucky clocked Steve as he turned to a blond man in his right. He gave the man a little nod and the blond whistled, short and piercing. 

 

_ Thank fucking God.  _

 

That was a signal if Bucky had ever seen one. Once the signal has gone out, everyone around the group on the ground put up a black umbrella that successfully his the spy and his package. It would be impossible for a lesser shot to tell where they were. Bucky couldn't help but grin. Steve Rogers was the third umbrella from the left, but no one had to know that. It was just up to Bucky to do the acting. 

 

“What’s happening? I’ve lost them!” the radio buzzed.

 

-

 

“This was never part of the plan,” Tony looked to Steve.

 

“It was part of mine,” Steve parroted. 

 

Tony laughed and began to steer Spyglass’ wife and child to the right, and out of the way. 

 

-

 

The gunshot didn’t come from above. It came from the car Tony had just put the wife and child into, from under the arm of Tony’s thick jacket. The man looked around nonchalantly, and stepped into the vehicle. 

 

-

 

Steve grabbed Spyglass and urged the man to put pressure on the wound in his torso. They stayed low as Spyglass was herded to the nearest parked car. As they crouched, Steve grunted and tore off the rearview mirror. He held it up, and scoped the scene behind him just in time to see the sniper rifle disappear through the window. It must have been them. The men hustled to the building the shot had come from, and burst through. 

 

“I need to deal with this now or we’ll never get across,” Steve growled, gun held high. 

 

“I don’t want to die,” Spyglass groaned. 

 

“You’re not going to die. Stay here.” 

 

The elevator was rickety and slow, but the Russian chatter from above was distinct. Steve’s breath came in heavy puffs as the machine took him up. There was a pause that made Steve’s stomach turn as the doors opened, and then gunshots rained from both sides as the Russians tried to take the stairs down. 

 

Steve took one more breath and pushed out of the elevator, where the Russians met him halfway. Before Steve could pull the trigger, the first man grabbed for im and they went backwards into the hard plaster of the wall. Steve houted and kicked out until the man backed up and Steve was left with enough of an opening to land a few hard punches to the man’s ribs and kidneys. The second man had approached behind them, and moved in to swing a heavy canvas bag at Steve’s face. The impact clanged through the space and sent Steve to the ground. 

 

Steve saw red and hauled himself back up to run at the second man. When he went to swing again, Steve knocked the bag down the stairs and kicked hars to send the man after it in a heap. The first Russian rushed for Steve and rained down punches to his face and sides. Steve in turn grappled at the man’s s shoulders and pushed, which sent them both tumbling down the first flight. Steve hit the landing an rolled, then made impact with the wall with a shout. 

 

From the ground Steve shot again, and this time landed a graze along the fist man’s side. The Russian groaned and used the wall the stand and walk to Steve with jerky, uncoordinated steps. When he reached the bottom step the man kicked out hard, and Steve blocked it quickly with an arm that sent the man spinning. 

 

The second man had reclaimed his bag and sent it flying down towards Steve. He kicked it out of the way and continued down the next flight of stairs. The first man waited for him and took a weak swing. Steve chuckled and threw punch after punch until the man teetered back, and then fell to the next landing, dead. The second man had made it to Steve, and had gotten his hands on a knife from his pocket. He swung at Steve, but was efficiently blocked. Steve put him in a one-armed headlock and snatched the knife. He plunged it into the man’s chest until he no longer fought. Then Steve threw him down with the other one. Steve huffed a rough breath and rolled his shoulders. Pain bloomed everywhere he could feel. He could only imagine what he would look like come the morning. If he made it that far. 

 

The heavy bag had fallen near where Steve stood and was now open on the ground. Steve rustled through it until he found another gun and went on his way. Spyglass waited for him at the bottom of the stairs. 

 

“Two more,” Spyglass whispered. “There’s two more.” 

 

Steve moved past him and nodded. The men spoke in quick Russian as they scoped the area. Steve stayed quiet and waited for them to come around the corner. When they did, Steve brought his closed hands down on the arms of the first man so he’d drop his gun. Without hesitation Steve shot him down. Before Steve could swing on the second man, he shouted. 

 

“Steve!” 

 

-

 

Bucky stopped short and lowered  his gun, eyes fixed on Steve. Steve was covered in blood from head to toe, and already had some gnarly bruises. His breath heaved as he looked at Bucky, and the sniper rifle he had hastily decided to use as a weapon. 

 

“French intelligence, huh?” Steve said, dry amusement in his voice. 

 

“Steve-” Before he could finish, two more Hydra agents sprinted to the landing. 

 

Steve raised his gun to shoot, but Bucky beat him to it as he turned and shot two clean bullets into them. When he turned back to Steve, the ma looked shocked. 

 

“Go,” Bucky urged. 

 

Steve nodded and grabbed for Spyglass, who’d been shot in the side. Blood had seeped into his shirt and painted it a stark crimson. The two men hustled out of the room. Steve shot Bucky a grateful look over his shoulder, and Bucky responded with a weak smile. 

 

-

 

“Do you know him?” Spyglass questioned as they ran for cover. 

 

“He’s...a friend. He’s not going to send them after us,” Steve promised. 

 

But the quiet couldn’t last forever, and as Steve and Spyglass entered a wide, white room on the first floor, the gunshots started again. Steve slammed the door shut and watched the bullet holes send motes of dust and light into the room. For another second there was calm until more shots were fired through the door. 

 

“Hide!” Steve yelled to Spyglass. “You need to stop that bleeding. Search for anything. Alcohol, rags.” 

 

And then Steve was off again, back to the door to finish the fight. The silence bled into the room for another split second until two men burst through. The first one shot by Steve in an instant, but the second made it though. He and Steve took separate shots at each other as they ducked for different positions, until they were back to back on different sides of the same wall. Steve could hear the man’s jacket slide, until they came face to face to fight. Steve was out of bullets, now. He had to go hand to hand with a man even bigger than him. Natasha and Peggy had helped him learn how to do that. 

 

Steve summoned all the strength he had left and swug out with the handle of his gun. The hit landed to the man’s face, and then Steve was able to land a few more in rapid succession to various parts of the man’s figure. The man screamed and grappled for Steve until he was able to pick him up and throw him to the wall. It was then that Spyglass appeared, and smashed an old bottle over the Russian’s head. The man turned and sent Spyglass flying, too. 

 

The man hobbled away to retrieve his gun and load it again, but Steve came for him from behind, and tackled him to the ground. The men rolled, and looked for anything to throw at each other. Steve found a hefty lamp, and the Russian a thick book. They stood and pitched sideways to throw punches in the middle of the room, shouting and grunting. 

 

The man swung Steve into a bookcase by his shoulders, and in turn Steve knocked their heads together. They parted again after the man screamed and flipped Steve onto a table, and then back to the floor once again. Steve crawled to the next table in the cluttered room and picked up a hot plate. The Russian had found a thick wooden beam, but Steve moved first and smashed it into the man’s knee and head successively. 

 

Both men fell to the ground after the exertion of strength. They coughed and gasped air for a moment. Steve rolled to his side and searched for something else to hit the man with. He found what he was looking for in the shape of a corkscrew with a sharp point. Steve stood, and them promptly fell back into the wall, hard. He tried again, and the men met for one final time. 

 

The man threw a fist, and then Steve did. Neither landed, so the Russian grabbed Steve in a headlock and rushed them backwards to use to wall the stay upright. He held on tight as Steve writhed in pain, his air cut off at the throat. He gasped and thrashed to no avail. 

 

“Take this, motherfucker,” the man said as he tightened his arm. 

 

Steve thrust his hand up and jabbed the corkscrew into the man’s eye, over and over until he let go. When Steve was able to flip face to face with the man, he stabbed the corkscrew into the Russian’s throat. As the man bled out and groaned, Steve came in close and growled. 

 

“Am I a motherfucker now?” 

 

The man fell to the ground, dead. Spyglass came around the corner and coughed a few times. The bleeding was bad. Steve grabbed his shoulder for support and tugged them both out. Steve looted a gun from the men Bucky had taken care of, and then they were on their way out. When they hit the midday streets of Berlin, it was dusty and gray. Their next opportunity was in the from of an officer that approached. 

 

“Hey! Stop there!” he yelled in heavy German. 

 

Spyglass tried to be polite, but Steve raised the gun and yanked Spyglass to him. 

 

“Shut up! Stay right there!” 

 

The two men passed and Steve pushed Spyglass to the officer’s vehicle. 

 

“Get in,” Steve urged. “Get in!” 

 

When the car was started, and they had pulled away, Spyglass chuckled. 

 

“You need to work on your German,” 

 

Steve didn’t answer as he beeped to move the last of the protestors out of the way. They made it halfway down the street before the man Steve had stabbed, he thought to death, with a corkscrew came barreling after them. He hit the window and jumped in top of the car to try to punch out the windshield. 

 

“What the hell!” Steve screamed, already livid again. 

 

He shot the man twice with the gun he’d stolen and the car screeched over the man’s body. People outside screamed and ran. Spyglass groaned and wrapped tape from the first aid kit he’d found around his wound. Steve accelerated in speed just as the big black car came around the turn. It came in close and shot the back windshield out of Steve and Spyglass’ car before it screeched hard and pulled up alongside them. They shot again and hit the window behind Spyglass. Steve managed to shoot out a tire and sent the car spinning into another. He looked to Spyglass. 

 

“Fasten your seatbelt.” 

 

Another black car met them at the end of the street. Steve stopped and put the car in reverse, all the way back up it. He narrowly avoided a car, and then sent theirs straight through moving traffic as Spyglass yelled. The black car tried to follow but was stopped by the water truck that slammed it into a row of parked cars. Steve made it to the end of the street again and stopped as he came out to the river. 

 

“Are you all right?” he asked Spyglass.

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“We need to get out-” 

 

Steve never got to finish, as another black car came from seemingly nowhere and slammed into Spyglass’ side of the car. Their car was pushed hard, and then tipped into the river with both men still inside. The car plunged into the icy water and shocked them both. 

 

“Open your door!” Steve shouted over.

 

“I can’t! My-my foot! It’s stuck!” Spyglass stuttered out. 

 

Steve reached over and pulled at Spyglass’ trapped foot. When the water got too high he dove under and pulled again, to no avail. When Steve rose up again, the water had almost reached the roof. 

 

“Just breathe,” Steve said. 

 

The water took them under and Steve kicked at the metal around Spyglass’ leg as hard as he could, to no avail. When Steve finally looked up, Spyglass was already looking back. The man had let go of his wound and his eyes were unmoving. No more air bubbles escaped his throat and with a horrible drop of his stomach Steve realized the man was dead. He gave the man a long look, and sent his apologies to him.

 

_ I’ve never lost a package _ . Steve had promised. 

 

When Steve couldn’t breath much longer he pushed out of the car and up to surface. He broke it with a violent gasp as his vision returned to normal. 

 

**London, 1989**

 

Steve let out a long exhale. Fury munched on a sandwich as Peggy changed the tape in the recorder.

 

“You need a break?” Fury gestured to Steve with his sandwich. 

 

“No.” 

 

The tape recorder whirred back to life as Peggy sat again. 

 

“So...yes, I-I think I understand everything,” she mused. “You made your plan. And you failed to get a high-value asset safely across to the West.” 

 

The words stung, even as Steve knew she didn’t mean them. MI6 were angry at Steve. Not Peggy Carter. She asked to be the one in the room so no one else would be able to say those words, and Steve loved her for that. 

 

“You sent me into a fucking hornet’s nest. I was made by Hydra from the moment my feet touched the ground, maybe even before. But then you knew that, didn’t you? You had your doubts about Stark, and you used me to shake him down,” Steve hissed. 

 

Peggy knew about this part. Steve had already told her. But MI6 had no idea that Peggy had limited involvement in this mission besides the briefings, as she was on her own missions. She would have killed the men that meddled in Steve’s had she known. 

 

Peggy sat back and played nonchalance, though Steve could see the anger flare her nostrils. 

 

“Ready when you are,” she said briskly. 


	8. Common People

**East Berlin**

 

Steve held his jacket closed around him and kept his head down. He shivered profusely as he took short, measured steps. He made it to a corner, and turned left. A man grabbed his shoulders and Steve turned quickly, ready to fight. 

 

“Woah, woah, woah, hey. It’s me,” Thor calmed him. “Come with me.” 

 

He took Steve to another building, with a small fire in the center. Men and women had gathered around it for warmth, and Steve took a place by himself. Thor wrapped a blanket around him and moved to sit in front of the fire. 

 

“He’s dead.” Steve pushed out. “Spyglass is dead.” 

 

“And you are alive,” Thor managed to see a silver lining. 

 

They’re all listening to me. They knew. Hydra knew everything. I need to get across,” Steve’s voice was hushed, but shook with anger and cold. The adrenaline slowly drained from his body as he sat and stared ahead. 

 

Thor nodded.

 

When they got in the car Thor had on small round glasses, and a long black jacket. The drove to the crossing point in silence. 

 

“Good afternoon, ambassador,” the guard said to Thor.

 

He stamped the man’s passport and sent them through. 

 

“Thank you officer,” Thor said brightly. 

 

-

 

Tony rubbed a hand over his eyes as he faked his sadness over the death of Spyglass. Fury had come out to give the family condolences and apologize for the disaster. As Fury approached, Tony amped up the sadness. 

 

“Well, I expected more out of the Brits than a royal goat fuck,” Fury admonished.

 

“I know. We’re sorry. Oh, no wait you lot don’t have your own private Stasi agent, do you?” He spat out.

 

Tony was American, he just didn’t work for the CIA. Not anymore.

 

“Not one with a photographic memory,” Fury replied. “We need to get with Rogers, get on the same page. We need that list- now more than ever.” 

 

“Rogers?” Tony questioned calmy. 

 

“She made it out,” Fury supplied. 

 

“Right,” Tony lit a cigarette. “You know, a beautiful Italian girl once said to me, ‘Tony...you can’t unfuck what’s been fucked.’ People are always getting in the way of progress, aren’t they?” Tony finished and walked out. 

 

-

 

Steve tore through his room in search of the listening devices. They had to be  _ somewhere _ . He threw his weapons case, and clothes around in his haste to find out what the hell he had been missing all this time. The television buzzed behind him, the reporter in an excited fervor. 

 

“What no one on Germany believed possible has happened tonight. The wall is coming down. The wall is down.” 

 

Steve smashed his lamp and threw off the blankets from his bed. 

 

“The wall is crumbling. The sledgehammers in the hands of men not born when it went up tear into it.” 

 

Steve sank to the floor, hands over his head. There was nothing. He couldn’t find a God damned thing.  _ Where was it? _

 

_ “You know if I was to follow you, I mean properly… you’d never fucking know.” _

 

Stark had taken his coat. Had lied to him, had  _ listened  _ to him. 

 

Steve grabbed for the black coat and ripped into the collar fiercely. It ripped, and gave way to the wire of a listening device. 

 

**London 1989**

 

“I found a French UFH device in my coat after Spyglass died. I now believe it was Stark who planted it. Made it look like Barnes,” Steve bit his cheek and looked down, regret on his face. 

 

**West Berlin**

 

There was an insistent knocking at the door. Steve grabbed the first gun he could find and went to look through the peephole. His whole body drooped when he saw it was Bucky. Steve opened the door and let him in, still wary of what he had seen today. 

 

“Why are you here?” Steve asked quietly. “You need to leave Berlin.” 

 

Bucky closed the door as Steve started to strip off his clothes. 

 

“When I didn’t hear from you I got worried,” Bucky admitted softly. 

 

“How naive can you be?” Steve shot back as he changed his clothes roughly. 

 

Steve knew what he had seen today, and this didn’t match.

 

“We chose this life, Bucky. This only ends one way,” Steve continued. “He set us both up. And you betrayed your men. You have to leave here while you can,” Steve shoved the UFH device into Bucky’s hands. 

Bucky looked down and let the last of the facade drop. 

 

“Steve. Listen. I know I need to leave. And I know I probably won’t make it,” Bucky swallowed hard. “I was in the window this morning. I was the sniper. But I didn’t make any shots. You made sure of that,” Bucky gave weak smile. “But I was worried about you. Because in this whole fucking shitshow, you were my chance to be something I’d wanted to be for a long time. I don’t wanna kill anymore. And I sure as hell am tired of Berlin. So thank you. For the chance,” Bucky finished, eyes shining with unshed tears. 

 

Steve stared back. This man had stolen his heart, and Steve wasn’t afraid to admit it to himself. He’d already made up his mind before he started moving. Steve took Bucky’s face gently into one hand and laid a kiss to those perfect red lips. 

 

“You make it through the night you come find me. We’ll leave this damned place together,” Steve promised. 

 

Bucky gave a crooked, watery smile and a lazy salute. 

 

“See you in the morning, Steve Rogers,” Bucky proclaimed. 

 

Neither man was sure they believed it. 

 

-

 

When Bucky returned home he slammed the door. Stark was going to fucking die, though he wasn’t sure if he should let Steve do the honors on that one. He tied his hair up and made his way through the space, over to the dark green phone on the bedside table. He dialed quickly and pulled out a gun, just in case. 

 

“Yes?” Stark’s voice answered. 

 

“Don’t underestimate me, Stark,” Bucky growled. 

 

“Oh, Barnes you listen to me very carefully. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

 

Bucky laughed. “You set me up.” 

 

“You- come on now this is the game,” Tony tried.

 

“I know you secrets, Stark. And I can play this game better than you think,” Bucky hung up and threw the phone down. 

 

Fireworks exploded over the city as people revelled in the streets. There was drinking and shouting from below as Bucky turned on his stereo quietly. He threw his possessions haphazardly into his suitcase. He was running out of time, and he knew it.

 

When the suitcase was full, he set to work on a letter for the only person he had left. He slid the photos he had taken of Steve in behind the letter and shoved it into his suitcase. Maybe it’d get to Rogers, somehow if Bucky didn’t. 

 

-

 

Steve held his gun out if front of him as he entered Stark’s apartment. It was dark and silent, other than the recordings of Steve playing over the stereo. Steve lowered his gun and adjusted his knee length leather jacket. He still felt like he was being listened to, even without the device. There was no sign of Stark, so Steve left to find him.

 

-

 

Bucky finished destroying the rest of his photographs, and went back into his bedroom. When he got there, the Hydra agent was waiting for him. He wrapped the garrote around Bucky’s neck and pulled, and both men went backwards. Bucky writhed and gasped as the wire cut into his skin harshly. They grappled until Bucky twisted sideways and yanked the man by the wrists hard enough for him to let go. When Bucky turned, the man was coming back for a second try. 

 

Bucky pulled the gun from his waistband and hit the man along the temple. The slid back and kicked out at Bucky. The kick caught him in the knee and Bucky stumbled backwards. He regained his balance and ran forward at full speed. Bucky tackled the man and held the gun to his forehead. 

 

“Hail Hydra,” the man rasped.

 

Bucky shot him, and sat to the side, head in his hands. He had to fucking  _ go.  _

 

-

 

There was only one question left to ask: what was the game, and who fucking won anyway?

 

-

 

Tony returned home with the can of gasoline and began to pour it over everything he could see. When the fire was set, Tony watched it for a moment. 

 

_ To win, first you have to know whose side you’re on. In this line of work, that’s right up there with black holes or ‘to be or not to be.’ You’ll fight the good fight and then one day realize that all you were was Satan’s little helper.  _

 

Tony stepped outside and looked up at the sky. The fireworks lit up the people who still cheered below. 

 

_ Ironic. The news will tell them there will be no more secrets. But we all know that’s not true. The world is run on secrets. Whoever has that list has power. And without it, you’re just another fucking target. And so what have I learned after all this time? All the sleepless nights, lying to friends, lovers, myself? Playing this crooked game in this crooked town, filled with backstabbers and four faced liars? I’ll tell you what I’ve learned.  _

 

Tony made it to his car, but there was a knife lodged into one wheel. As he turned, Steve came out of the shadows, gun drawn. 

 

_ One thing and one thing only: _

 

“I fucking love Berlin!” Tony shouted. 

 

Steve shot him a second later, and he fell to the ground in a heap. As he gasped for air, Steve approached. 

  
  


“You didn’t have to do it,” Steve said quietly. 

 

Natasha had known this man, maybe trusted him. Maybe it has done her in like it almost had Steve. She had always had a bigger heart. 

 

“You what...what...you suddenly decided to develop a conscience, after all you’ve done? Have you noticed how everyone you get close to ends up fucking dead?” Tony laughed, a high and manic thing.

 

“You gave Hydra the details of the plan. You wanted them to take me out. You were too fucking scared to do it yourself,” Steve shook his head. 

 

“Too smart, more like,” Tony corrected. “If those Hydra pricks had done their part, I’d be on my way to a handjob with the queen by now. I’ve read that list, Steve. And you feature heavily. Turns out you’ve been a very naughty boy. Spyglass was a liability to us all. I couldn’t risk leaving him with  _ you _ .” 

 

“Where’s the list, Tony?” Steve asked calmly.

 

“I don’t have it. It’s en route to MI6, where it belongs.”

 

Steve placed one foot heavily onto Tony’s gunshot wound and pressed down. The man screamed, and writhed in place. Steve leaned down and snatched the watch off Tony’s wrist as the man laughed again.

 

“Are you going to lie to the very end?” Steve asked.

 

“Truth and lies. People like us don’t know the difference.”

 

“No, we know the difference,Tony. We choose to ignore it. Isn’t that right, Comrade Satchel?” Steve revealed. 

 

Tony gulped. “So that’s how you’ll make it work.” 

 

“It’s a double pleasure to deceive the deceiver,” Steve quoted. 

 

“Well played,” Tony congratulated. 

 

Steve shot him through the skull and went on his way. Steve Rogers was not a communist, or working with Hydra. He was an American who worked with MI6, but also the CIA. That kind of crossover was heavily frowned upon with two intelligence agencies who weren’t really sure they trusted each other. It was better if no one who didn't’ already know found out. On his way out of the alley, he stopped at a payphone. It was time to call in a few favors. 

 

“Peggy? I need you to do something for me…” 

 

-

 

Bucky loaded his bag into his car and sped off. The longer he stayed the shorter his life would be. It was late, with only a few hours left until morning. He needed to find Steve and lay low. They’d both made it this far, to die now would be really...fucking stupid. 

 

He found the man at a payphone a few streets away, and watched him speak intently for a moment before he parked the car next to Steve’s spot. The man looked over and grinned, and Bucky gave him one to match. It might just be all right for awhile. 

 

**London 1989**

 

“You killed Tony Stark?” Peggy pretended to be alarmed. “You killed our head of station, an officer of the Crown. You better have hard proof and a damn good explanation.” 

 

“Who are you to judge my actions?” Steve argued. 

 

“I’m a representative of your superiors,” Peggy snapped. 

 

Steve finally chuckled. “My superiors. This was never about stopping the war. It was about saving your asses. You couldn’t bear the embarrassment of the sins that we committed in the Cold War. And I was stupid enough to give my life for it,” Steve said everything he wanted to say to the men behind that glass. He’d given enough of his life to them.

 

Peggy smiled, and tucked her chin into her chest to hide the pride in her eyes. 

 

“Yes, well, that’s your job, isn’t it?” she replied. 

 

“I did my job. Despite your best efforts and your incompetence, I succeeded where you failed. I uncovered your traitor, Satchel. Brought him the only justice he deserved. A bullet,” Steve’s lip quivered with the anger he still felt. He wanted this to be over, he wanted to take Bucky and go  _ home,  _ all the way to Brooklyn. 

 

“Percival met with Hydra the day before Spyglass was killed.”

 

-

 

**West Berlin**

 

_ “Maybe we could make some sort of arrangement.” _

 

_ “You’ve got to know that I’m the only man in this town that can help you get that list.”  _

 

_ “Very impressive. Dedication. Loyalty. They’re rare things these days.”  _

 

_ “It’s a double pleasure to deceive the deceiver.”  _

 

_ “We have a deal?”  _

 

Steve took the pieces of tape he wanted and sliced them with a box cutter. When taped together, the bits of Stark’s voice said exactly what Steve wanted him to. His hard proof for MI6. 

 

-

 

**London 1989**

 

“Stark  _ was _ Satchel,” Steve promised.

 

Fury and Peggy shared a look. 

 

“Where’s the list?” Peggy asked. 

 

“I don’t know,” Steve lied. 

 

“Oh, bollocks,” Falsworth stepped from behind the glass. “The prime minister is going to have a difficult time with this. We’re choosing to bury this one, Rogers. Your mission never took place. This conversation...never happened.” 

 

Peggy gathered her files and stepped out. Fury popped his pen back onto his notebook with an over exaggerated motion of his hand. He followed Peggy a second later. 

 

“I’m putting you on leave, effective immediately. We’ll start the next decade well rested,” Falsworth finished and turned to leave.

 

“Sir,” Steve stopped him. “What should I wear for my tea with the queen?” 

 


	9. Epilogue: Fight the Power

When Steve arrived home the sun had begun to set, and the golden rays washed across Bucky’s skin like honey. The man in question had the radio on, blaring loudly as he cooked. It was startlingly domestic, and Steve would never get tired of it.

 

“London calling to the faraway towns, now war is declared, and battle come down…” Bucky sang as he moved vegetables around a pan.

 

Steve leaned against the doorframe and took it all in. It wasn’t quite possible to balance two lives, Steve knew that better than anyone, but Bucky sure as hell let him get close. It was probably fortunate the man had been hired by the CIA. Fully probationary of course. Under Steve’s watch until they were sure he wasn’t really a communist. They had never found out exactly who Natasha’s killer was, and that would weigh on Steve. But there, in that kitchen, Steve knew she would be proud of him. Bucky started as he realized he wasn’t alone. A sheepish grin graced his lovely features when he saw it was Steve.

 

“How long have you been standing there?” Bucky asked.

 

“Long enough to know you probably should have been a rockstar,” Steve answered.

 

Bucky laughed and approached to wrap his arms around Steve’s middle. Steve tucked Bucky’s head under this chin and held him there softly.

 

“How’d it go?” Bucky questioned, his accent natural and a little slurred.

There was no need to fake accents when they were alone. Just two Brooklyn boys sharing an apartment halfway across the world.

 

“It was brilliant. They even put me on leave,” Steve replied.

 

Bucky lifted his head and grinned. “Perfect. All the more time for me to fu-”

 

He was cut off my the smoke alarm as his vegetables burned. Maybe balancing two lives _was_ impossible.

 

-

 

**Paris 1989**

 

Steve’s leave was approximately three days. Then they had a lead on Hydra and Steve and Bucky were sent to Paris to get rid of them. The men walked down the cobbled streets, side by side. Steve’s bright red coat fluttered in the wind as he walked, and everytime he glanced over at the man to his left he couldn’t help but smile.

 

“Happy to be back home?” Steve joked.

 

“Shut up, punk,” Bucky chuckled and nudged Steve’s shoulder.

 

When they arrived at the hotel, Bucky waited outside while Steve stepped in. He met the agent at the door.

 

“Comrade Satchel,” the man greeted.

 

“Comrade,” Steve answered.

 

Steve sat on the couch comfortably and reached into his jacket for the watch. Not the list, just a fake.

 

“The list!” the man smiled. “Good boy!”

 

Steve smiled back and the man poured them drinks. Steve took his and looked coyly over the rim. The man smiled and spoke.

 

“Stark told me who you are,” he said as the Hydra agents walked in. They wore gloves, and teo held guns.

 

A clean job.

 

“Be a professional, go stand on the plastic,” an agent said.

 

Steve knew Bucky was listening to the conversation. They’d put a recording device into Steve’s jacket, and Bucky could listen through a small radio. Steve just hoped he’d be able to arrive. When he did, Steve took the gun he’d planted into the ice bucket out and began to shoot. The silencer made the shots clean and soft, while Bucky took care of the two closest to him. The gunfire rained down and feathers coated the room as they blew apart the overstuffed couch. When they were all down, Steve picked up his coat and shook it off.

 

“Did you really think I was going to give you that list? Before you die I want to get this through your thick, primitive skull. I never worked for you. You worked for me. Every false intel I gave you, a rip in the Iron Curtain. Every piece of intel you gave me, a bullet in my fucking gun,” Steve poured himself another shot of vodka and then one for Bucky.

 

“I want my life back,” Steve said, and sent one final bullet through the man.

 

Steve took Bucky’s hand and they walked through the hall and back into the elevator, where Thor waited for them, dressed as a quite muscular bellhop. Steve wiped the blood from his face as Bucky wiped the feathers from his own coat.

 

They exited the hotel and got into the car that waited for them on the street. Their things were already on the private plane, ready to go back to New York. Steve looked to Bucky and they shared a private smile. Things had begun to look up.

 

Nick Fury sat in one of the plush seats and held a glass of gin haphazardly in one hand. Bucky sat down as Steve chuckled at the man.

 

“Let’s go home,” Fury said.

 

“That sounds good,” Bucky answered.

 

“Let’s go home,” Steve agreed.

 

Fury checked his watch, a little something Steve had picked up for him in Berlin, and looked to him.

 

“Motherfucker?” Fury questioned, a reference to Steve’s interview in London. “Really?”

 

Steve laughed at Fury, and the confused look on Bucky’s face. He was going _home._

 

“I’m glad it was convincing.”

 

**The End**

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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